


Even When They Had Nothing

by Army_of_Dorkness



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bottom Steve Rogers, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Gay Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Rimming, Slow Burn, Top Bucky Barnes, ending flashes forward to present day because I'm a sucker for happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8070022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Army_of_Dorkness/pseuds/Army_of_Dorkness
Summary: Bucky's been in love with Steve for years.  Now that Steve's moved in with him, the heartache is almost unbearable, but Bucky knows he can never reveal his true feelings for his best friend.  But when Steve falls severely ill, and life and death hang in the balance, the web of secrets begins to unravel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! I'm back with more Stucky! This one's gonna be shorter than "Longing/Homecoming," and while elements of this fic are based on ideas I had while writing my last fic, they don't take place within the same universe. I'll probably update at least once a week. There'll be quite a bit of angst, UST, and hurt/comfort so sappy that you could bottle it and sell it to drizzle on pancakes. And don't worry -- there'll be porn, too.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy it!

Bucky didn’t worry too much about Steve when he first got sick – at least, he didn’t worry more than he usually did. Steve’d been finding ways to make him worry since the moment they’d met. The thing was, Steve didn’t seem to realize that his body wasn’t able to match his gumption. The stupid little punk never backed down from anything, and consequently, he never stayed out of trouble for very long. Bucky knew plenty of small guys who talked tough and started fights to compensate for their stature, who self-consciously made up for being shorter than their dates by punching any guy who eyed their girl. But with Steve, it was different.

With Steve, it was _always_ different.

Up until recently, he’d been displaying his particular brand of stupid by refusing to accept Bucky’s offer of a place to live. “I can get by on my own,” he’d insisted, a furrow knitting itself above the inner corners of his eyebrows, the way it always did when he was being stubborn. Part of Bucky had wanted to argue with him, to lay out all the reasons why Steve should move in. But he’d thought better of it – Steve’s grief was still raw, and anyway, he didn’t want to make his case _too_ passionately. 

To his credit, Steve made it a couple of months on his own. He’d sacrificed a lot to make it as long as he did. All though high school, Steve had talked Bucky’s ear off about his plans to enroll in art school after graduation. “I think I could get good at it if I work hard enough, Buck,” he’d said, over and over again. “I could do illustrations for the papers or magazines or something. Imagine! Maybe someday I’ll be a famous artist, and you can brag to all your dates that you knew Steve Rogers _before_ he was famous.” Bucky always responded to that last joking comment with a tight-lipped smile that he hoped Steve couldn’t read. Still, he’d always believed in Steve’s talent, as he’d watched childish doodles evolve into sketchbooks full of carefully rendered scenes from their life in Brooklyn. His pencil captured flocks of pigeons whirling between the criss-crossed laundry lines stretched between buildings, shirts and sheets flapping like flags in the breeze; the eager throngs of Coney Island, faces lit up with carnival lights and the promise of fun; and dozens of sketches of Bucky, who Steve insisted was “his best model.” 

But when his mother began to cough up blood in the middle of Steve’s senior year, everything had changed. Steve took on a part-time job at a grocer’s to cover the rent, and when he graduated, he begged Mr. Willis, the owner of the store, for more hours. His asthmatic lungs and overworked heart, however, made him slow at stocking the shelves, and nearly useless at unloading deliveries, and Mr. Willis couldn’t justify keeping him on for more than a few hours a day. He managed to pay rent through December between his mother’s remaining savings and his meager paychecks, his dreams of art school pushed aside in favor of survival, but when January rent was due, Steve found himself coming up short. 

“I dunno what to do, Bucky,” he’d confessed, a few days shy of Christmas.

“You still have my key, right?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah,” Steve replied reluctantly. “I don’t wanna impose, though. Your place isn’t that big, and besides, you’re never gonna get a girl to come up after a date if you’ve got some other guy sleeping on the floor.”

Bucky swallowed, and shook his head. “I don’t care. You’re my best pal, Stevie. I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t serious about it.” 

Steve hesitated. Bucky knew he was out of options, but as always, he wasn’t willing to go down without a fight. “Okay. But only until I can find a cheaper place.”

“Fine. Just… please let me help you out, at least for a while. Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve agreed, avoiding Bucky’s eyes, clearly embarrassed to accept his offer. “Thanks, pal.”

* * *

It was February now, and Steve had been living with Bucky for over a month. As always, Steve spent most of the winter battling one cold after another. His congested snores kept Bucky awake some nights, but he didn’t mind. Mercifully, it was a warmer winter than the last – the beginning of 1936 had been one of the coldest spells in recent memory. It was during that bitterly cold time that Sarah Rogers had begun to cough. Initially, she’d blamed it on the frigid air, but when blood began to fleck her handkerchiefs after each coughing fit, and her symptoms became more and more like those of the tuberculosis patients she treated, the true nature of her illness became undeniable. 

When Steve woke up for work one brisk morning with an unstoppably runny nose, complaining that his head and throat hurt, Bucky was mostly just relieved that whatever he had didn’t seem to be tuberculosis. 

“I dunno if I can make it to work, Buck,” he’d confessed.

“You _shouldn’t_ go to work,” Bucky insisted. “Mr. Willis won’t be too pleased if you get snot all over the store.”

“I guess,” Steve agreed reluctantly. 

“I’ll stop by on my way down to the docks and let him know you’re not coming in, okay?” Bucky insisted. 

“Thanks,” Steve replied weakly. 

“Just take it easy, okay? Maybe do some sketches or somethin’.” Bucky smiled reassuringly at Steve, who sat hunched-over at their little table, hands cradling a cup of coffee for warmth.

“Okay. That sounds nice,” Steve said with a shaky smile. 

“Just don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” Bucky said with a grin, giving Steve’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“How could I do anything stupid without _you_ , jerk?” Steve teased, but before he could smile, he doubled over into a hoarse cough. 

Bucky frowned. “Take it easy, Stevie. Please?”

“Okay,” he agreed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I gotta hit the road,” said Bucky, affectionately ruffling Steve’s hair. “See ya tonight, pal,”

Steve sniveled. “See you later,” he replied, but his increasingly stuffy nose made his words sound more like _thee you leder_.

Bucky stopped by the grocery to inform Mr. Willis of Steve’s illness, and then began his walk to work in earnest. Dawn seeped into the gray sky as Bucky strode down the sidewalks of Brooklyn, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets against the late-winter chill. The city pulsed with life at all hours, but during these early-morning walks to the dock, Bucky witnessed its slower rhythms – the sleepy stirrings of lights flicking on in apartment windows, the lazy stroll of the tamer alley cats venturing stiff-tailed and purring onto the sidewalks, the groggy hustle of men like himself heading down to the docks and factories, hoping there’d be work for them that day. 

Bucky had always taken a quiet sort of comfort in these liminal moments, in the time between night and day, home and work, one thing and another. He especially liked those times when he was in transit, just another man walking briskly down the street, somehow alone in a city where people were constantly present. That feeling of anonymity, the sensation of being unnoticed in public, made him feel free. There were things hidden deep within him that he could never let surface, secrets bubbling in the depths of him that nobody could know. Not even Steve. _Especially_ not Steve. But as he walked down the street, just another nameless man on the way to a nameless job, he could let the mask inside himself fall away, and acknowledge the unspoken tangles of his heart.

He wasn’t quite sure when he’d realized that he wasn’t like other guys. He supposed it hadn’t been an all-of-the-sudden sort of thing. It wasn’t the kind of thing a fella just owned up to. He could remember a few moments clearly, though, and as they’d added up in his adolescence, one by one, something inside him had clicked together. 

He’d been thirteen, and Steve had been hunched over his sketchbook on the edge of the schoolyard, scribbling furiously away as he tried to complete his drawing before the bell rang. Bucky had sat beside him, bored and picking at the grass. As the tinny peal of the bell called them back to class, Steve showed his sketch to Bucky. He’d drawn three of the girls from his class – Bucky couldn’t remember who the other two had been, but he couldn’t forget how Ruth Jameson stood, as recognizable as a photo, in the center of the picture, each detail of her face carefully rendered by Steve’s pencil, right down to the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and pert little nose. “What do ya think?” Steve had asked. “I hope I did her justice. She’s the prettiest girl in the whole school.” Steve looked down at his sketch again, and stood up, dusting off his pants. Bucky felt a strange twinge in his stomach, and couldn’t respond with more than a noncommittal shrug. “I guess you’re right, Buck,” Steve had replied. “I butchered her chin.” He tore the paper from the sketchbook, crumpled it, and threw it into the trashcan on their way back into the building. _That wasn’t what I meant_ , Bucky wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure what he _had_ meant to say. 

Then later that year, Steve found himself, as he so often did, getting his ass kicked by a couple bullies in an alley after school. Bucky had intervened, and although he was already getting to be big and strong for his age, one of the bullies got in a solid lick on Bucky and given him a helluva black eye. Steve had been in pretty rough shape, sporting a split lip, a shiner of his own, and a dozen or so bruises on his chest and ribs. Bucky had insisted on taking Steve back to the Barnes’ household, sitting him on the edge of the tub and carefully dabbing his split lip clean with a washcloth. But Steve, after a few minutes of Bucky tending to him, wriggled away, grabbed a clean washcloth and dampened it with cold water, and insisted on gently pressing it to Bucky’s eye. As Bucky looked down at Steve with his uncovered eye, he’d seen those azure eyes staring back up at him out of that bruised and bloodied face, pupils wide with concern and care, and he’d felt something catch and pull within his chest, an ache like a hook finding purchase within him. 

A few years later, when Bucky was seventeen, they’d gone to a dance, the biggest one of the year. Bucky had found dates for both of them – he’d gone with Grace Smith, who Steve had described, maybe a little enviously, as “a real catch.” Grace’s quiet, slightly shy friend, Gladys Edwards, had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to come along as Steve’s date. Bucky had prepared for the evening by dressing as sharply as he could manage, and filling a large flask with some of his pa’s whiskey. He felt pretty slick sneaking it into the dance in his coat pocket, periodically sneaking little swigs in the bathroom. Grace seemed pretty excited about the whole thing, and as the night went on, she wouldn’t stop dancing closer and closer to him, the slightly-too-sweet smell of her perfume making his head spin.

“You should walk me home after the dance,” Grace murmured into his ear, so close that her breasts brushed his chest. “My parents are both working the night shift tonight if you wanna come up,” she said with a suggestive smile. 

Bucky forced himself to keep dancing, fighting the urge to freeze up. “I… I’ll try. But I’m not feeling too well.”

Grace paused her dancing and looked up at him, her red lips twisting into a pout. “Aw, c’mon. I know you’ve been sneaking drinks – I can smell it on your breath, you know. But it’ll be _fun_!”

“I… ah… I’d better go check on how Steve and Gladys are doing,” Bucky said quickly. Grace scowled after him as he hurried across the dance floor, his heart pounding in his chest. Grace was the one of the prettiest girls in the neighborhood, according to every guy he know. So why did the idea of going to bed with her make the pit of his stomach grow cold, despite the heat of the whiskey growing inside him? 

He found Steve sitting on a chair at the edge of the dance hall, alone. “Hey, pal,” he said, clapping his hand slightly-too-firmly on Steve’s shoulder. “Where’s Gladys?”

“Over there,” Steve gestured onto the dance floor. She was dancing arm-in-arm with a guy Bucky didn’t know, appearing to be having a swell time of it. 

“Oh,” said Bucky. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I just wanna get out of here.”

“Me too,” said Bucky.

“But what about Grace? She seems real hot for you.”

Bucky shrugged. “I dunno about that. I need some fresh air, anyway. This place is makin’ me dizzy.”

“I don’t think it’s the _place_ , Buck,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “How much whiskey did you drink?”

 _Not enough_ , Bucky wanted to say, but instead he just grabbed Steve’s wrists and pulled him up. “Let’s get outta here, Stevie,” he said, leading them to the door. 

They’d spent the next couple hours sitting on a stoop, talking about everything and nothing as Bucky downed the rest of his flask. His head swam and he couldn’t get out his words without slurring, but as he looked down at Steve, with that shock of blond hair and that thin, contemplative face set with those impossibly blue eyes, he knew that the warmth spreading through his chest wasn’t just from the whiskey. 

_Oh Christ_ , he realized, his hands suddenly trembling as the feelings he’d had for so long suddenly made sense. _I’m in love with Steve._

“You okay?” Steve asked, looking up at Bucky, his brow furrowed with concern.

Bucky realized he’d been silently clenching his jaw. “Uh. Yeah. I just feel a little tired is all.” 

“We should get home anyway,” said Steve. “Ma’s working overnight at the hospital. Is it okay if I stay the night with you?”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky answered, only vaguely aware that he was speaking, feeling distant from his body, his words, everything. _You love Steve Rogers_ , his mind seemed to echo at him. 

He spent hours lying awake, staring up at the ceiling as the room spun, unable to turn his focus away from the soft sounds of Steve’s breath whispering up from his nest of couch cushions on the floor. He loved Steve, he had loved him for years, and now he knew it with a knife-sharp certainty. _And I gotta make sure nobody ever knows_ , he realized, and a lump caught in his throat, silent tears of longing sliding down his temples. The headache he woke up with the next morning went away, but the longing ache in his chest never did.

Now he was nineteen, and now that Steve lived with him, the ache had only grown stronger, coupled with the overbearing weight of secret guilt. But as always, he did his best to shove it down, to ignore the way that Steve’s blue eyes, with their impossibly long lashes, made his knees tremble and his palms sweat. Despite his best efforts, though, he still felt the knot of longing in his chest tighten a little more with each day he silently, secretly loved his best friend. 

Bucky had been so lost in thought that he barely noticed that he’d reached his destination. As he joined the line of longshoremen hoping for work, he shivered a little in the cold. The clouds had grown darker, and the air had the subtle smell of snow soon to come. His little flat was drafty. He hoped Steve was keeping warm. 

* * *

There was no time for introspection on the walk home. The threatened snowfall had come in the early afternoon – only a couple inches thus far, but it continued to fall into the evening in flurries, and the accompanying wind that howled in off the water drove Bucky to half-walk, half-run back to his apartment, huddling over against the cold. His back ached and his legs were like rubber from a long day of unloading crates and barrels from the ships, but the frigid winds were enough to keep his pace brisk. 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped through the door to the apartment building, the burning sensation of warmth returning to his fingers and toes both painful and welcome. Bucky scaled the five flights of stairs that led to his flat, his thighs aching softly from the effort. He was strong, and his work as a longshoreman had filled out his lithe body with the bulk of well-used muscles. Even so, after a long day at the docks, he sometimes wished he’d found a flat on a lower floor. 

Bucky fumbled the key into the lock with his still-aching fingers, and stepped into the apartment. His stomach clenched when he saw Steve – or rather, what little of him he _could_ see. 

Steve lay on the couch cushions that served as his bed in the middle of Bucky’s floor, wrapped tightly in blankets, but still visibly shivering. 

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, “How ya doin’, pal?”

Steve groaned. “I’m really cold,” he replied, his voice thick with congestion. “Think I might have a fever.”

Bucky knelt beside Steve and put the back of his hand gently against Steve’s damp forehead. Despite his shivers, his skin was clammy and alarmingly hot to the touch. “I’ll say,” agreed Bucky. “Lotta guys down at the docks are getting the flu lately. I’ll bet that’s what you’ve got, too.”

“Probably,” Steve sighed, his breath a rattle.

“Do do any drawing today?” Bucky asked. 

“Jus’ a little bit,” Steve mumbled. 

“Can I see?” Bucky asked. Talking about his art always made Steve feel a bit better, even if only temporarily. 

“Sure. Sketchbook’s on the table,” Steve wheezed, his words trailing off into coughing. 

Bucky walked over to the table and took a look. Steve had filled two pages – one with a still life of their percolator and a mug full of coffee, and the other with a few rough sketches of a man who looked a bit like Bucky, walking and running and jumping. 

“Is this supposed to be me?” Bucky asked, holding up the sketchbook. 

“I dunno,” said Steve. “They’re just little doodles, y’know?”

Bucky nodded and put the sketchbook back on the table. “Of course,” he said. “Well, I’m always happy to model for you,” striking a goofy strongman pose in an attempt to make Steve laugh. His efforts worked, but Steve’s laugh quickly turned into a cough that made Bucky wince. “That sounds painful,” he said.

“Yeah,” Steve replied weakly. 

“I really don’t think you should be sleeping on the floor when you’re like this,” said Bucky, frowning. “You take the bed tonight.”

“But Buck, where are you gonna sleep?” Steve protested.

“On the floor. I’ll be fine.”

“No. I won’t kick you out of your bed just ‘cause I’m a little bit sick,” said Steve, furrowing his brow just like he always did when he was being too stubborn for his own good. 

“I won’t take no for an answer on this, pal,” said Bucky. “I’m not offering. I’m insisting.” Steve grumbled, but when Bucky gently bent over to help him into the bed, he didn’t resist. Bucky kept a gentle grip on Steve’s arm, but as his friend began to lurch sideways, Bucky’s arms flew out to support him under his armpits, feeling the dampness of fever-sweat on Steve’s pajamas. “You okay?” Bucky asked, trying to conceal the alarm in his voice.

“Uh-huh,” replied Steve, as Bucky guided him onto the bed and laid him down. “Just got a tiny bit dizzy is all.”

Bucky shook his head as he pulled his blankets over Steve, then added a couple more from the pile on the couch cushions. “Warm enough?” he asked.

“I think so. Thank you, Bucky,” said Steve. As he spoke, he looked up into Bucky’s eyes, his pupils so wide they nearly obscured the blue of his irises, and the ache in Bucky’s chest gave a little throb. 

“It’s nothin’,” said Bucky. “I know you’d do the same for me if I was sick.”

“You hardly ever get sick,” said Steve. 

But I know you would,” said Bucky, giving Steve’s hair a gentle ruffle. “I’m gonna make dinner now, okay?”

“Okay,” said Steve.


	2. Chapter 2

It only grew colder as the night went on. Bucky lay shivering on the couch cushions, the single blanket he’d saved for himself utterly inadequate against the draft that seeped in from the gap under the door, and the chill that the thin windowpanes couldn’t shield against. Despite his mountain of blankets, Steve’s teeth audibly chattered. Bucky could tell that Steve was still awake; his breathing hadn’t settled into the slower rhythm of sleep. 

_We’re both cold. I should just offer to… no._ Bucky curled himself into a ball, pulling the blankets tighter around himself. He stared into the darkness, silently cursing his worn flannel pajamas, his thin woolen blanket, and his own cowardice. _It’s not like you’d be askin’ him on a date_ , he reminded himself. They were both cold. They’d be warmer in the same bed. It’d just be for practical reasons – nothing more to it than that. But if it was so simple, so innocent, why couldn’t he just ask? 

He knew why, of course. It was because, ever since the night of that dance when he’d been seventeen (and years before that, although he’d been unable to understand it) he’d wanted – desperately, fiercely, achingly – to share a bed with Steve. What he wanted to do in that shared bed… well, most of those fantasies made his throat seize up with guilt. But he also knew that even the barest scraps from the table of intimacy would feel like a feast to him. Even standing close to Steve, even touching him casually, like how any friend would – it was almost unbearable, sometimes, the way it made his heart overflow. The mere idea of lying close to Steve, of sharing blankets and body heat and a bed – it made his head spin. It felt dangerous, and thrilling, and although he wanted it with an agonizing desperation, he knew that it would probably be a terrible idea. So he wrapped the thin blanket even tighter around himself, the feeling in his fingers and toes slowly replaced by the tingle of cold numbness, and listened to the chatter of Steve’s teeth above him. Sleepless minutes crept by, their unspoken shared sleeplessness heavy in the air.

“B-Bucky?” said Steve, his voice rising softly, shakily from under the pile of blankets.

Bucky started. “Yeah?” he replied. 

“I’m still so cold.”

“I can tell, pal. Your teeth are chatterin’ so loud it’s keepin’ me up.”

“Sorry,” said Steve.

“I’ve got one more blanket. I can give it to you if ya want.” Better to be unbearably cold than to risk getting too close.

“I can’t take your last blanket, Buck,” Steve replied. “But I was thinkin’ maybe, if you don’t mind…” 

_Is he asking…? No, no, no, this is gonna be a bad idea…_ thought Bucky, his stomach clenching with something between fear and longing.

“…Maybe you could sleep up here with me?” Steve finished. “If you don’t mind. It’d be warmer for both of us. I mean, only if you don’t mind.” 

Bucky swallowed, his heart fluttering like a moth around a streetlamp. _This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. But if you say no, and Steve gets sicker because he got too cold…_

Weighing the morality of sharing a bed with his best friend who he secretly loved, against the morality of letting his sick best friend get sicker in the cold of the night, he knew that the latter was undeniably worse. “Sure, pal,” said Bucky, trying to keep the tone of his voice casual. “You’d better not hog the blankets, though,” he joked. _Don’t let on how badly you’ve wanted this._

Bucky stood, taking the blanket and his pillow with him, adding them to the bed. The apartment was dark, but a little light still shone through the curtains, just enough so Bucky could make out Steve’s shape in the bed, the small lump of him under all those blankets, the messy blond hair nestled into his pillow. Bucky carefully drew back the blankets, trying not to uncover Steve’s trembling frame, and slipped into the bed. His heart felt ready to burst out of his chest, and the tremor in his hands wasn’t just from the cold. 

Bucky lay at the very edge of the twin bed, careful not to actually brush against Steve. He rolled onto his side, facing the edge of the bed. Shame burned his cheeks as he felt his body respond to this unexpected closeness. 

“Thank you,” said Steve, his shivers lessening.

“It’s nothin’,” Bucky replied, half in response to Steve, half as a reminder to himself. 

Steve rustled about in the blankets, and suddenly, he was curled close against Bucky’s back, his forehead nestled into the space between Bucky’s shoulder blades. _Oh, shit_ , he thought, every nerve in his body crackling alive at the touch, every point of contact lit up white-hot. Below Steve’s forehead, he felt the gentle pressure of forearms against his back, and the bony angles of knees against the backs of his thighs. His pulse thundered in his temples. He’d thought that the intimacy of the bed would satiate him, that at least for a few hours of the night, it could quench the aching want of his heart. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The closeness was torturous. Steve was close to him, so close he could feel the heat of his breath through his pajama shirt, but what Bucky wanted – to roll over, to take one hand to Steve’s back and the other to cup the back of his head, to press his lips against that soft, pouting mouth, to know that Steve wanted him as more than a friend – it somehow felt even further out of reach. 

“G’night, Buck,” Steve whispered.

“’Night, Stevie,” Bucky murmured into the darkness.

A few minutes later, and Steve’s labored snores told Bucky that he was sound asleep. _Dammit, Steve_ , Bucky thought to himself, _Why did it have to be you? Why couldn’t I be into dames?_ He’d asked himself these questions so many times, ever since he’d realized that he loved Steve, and that he couldn’t will himself to do more than feign interest in girls. Sometimes he wondered if in time, he could find a woman who he could convince himself he loved, and one day all this longing could become nothing more than a faded, secret memory. But he knew that he couldn’t forget Steve any more than he could bear to lose a limb. The mark on his heart was indelible. 

He stared off into the dark room, listening to the snuffling sound of Steve’s snoring. He felt ripped in half – torn between the undeniable sweetness of feeling Steve nestled against him, and the dull throb of guilt, the longing for _more_ , that familiar, monstrous hunger gnawing inside him. It was getting late; he needed to get some sleep. He wasn’t likely to get work at the docks if he was exhausted before the day even began. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the electricity of Steve’s body pressed against his own. Sleep didn’t come easy, and when it did, his dreams were full of blue eyes and the touch of slender artist’s hands. 

* * * 

When he woke up, he found that he’d rolled over in his sleep, and Steve’s forehead rested gently just below his throat. For the first few moments of waking, feeling Steve so close, the sweet, slightly sweat-salty smell of his hair filling his nose – it felt like the most natural thing in the world. But with a flash of realization, Bucky hurriedly squirmed up to sitting and slipped out of bed. _Guys don’t just cuddle with their best pals,_ Bucky reminded himself as he got out of bed. He tucked the blankets snugly around Steve as he shivered and snored, and got ready for work, careful to make as little noise as possible as he got dressed, made coffee, cooked up eggs and toast, and slipped out the door. He left a note for Steve, who was still sound asleep as he left:

**Went to work. I’ll let Mr. Willis know you’re still sick.  
I hope you feel better soon. Draw me something nice if you’re up for it.**

**-Bucky**

He walked to work in the dreary near-dawn, his boots crunching through the snow. His mind raced with thoughts of the night before, of Steve’s small frame curled against his body. It felt surreal, like when something you’re longing for in real life happens in a dream, but the details are all wrong, even though you can’t quite place a finger on _how_ they’re wrong. Except, in this case, he guessed that he knew exactly what was wrong – in his fantasies, Steve wanted him for more than just his warmth. He hated to admit it to himself, but a part of him felt selfishly, irrationally angry. Steve had no way of knowing how Bucky felt towards him – Bucky had made sure of that – but he still felt the bitter taste of resentment on the back of his tongue. It was a moment Bucky had dreamed of, longed for, imagined for so long. But he’d wanted Steve to want _him_ , for there to be intimacy and closeness and love… But instead, he was left with that familiar self-loathing. 

_You should be glad he doesn’t know_ , his inner voice reminded him. _If he knew you were such a pervert, you’d lose your best friend. You know what they say in church about guys like you. You know all the schoolyard insults. As if Steve – righteous, moral, always-does-the-right-thing Steven Grant Rogers – would ever be like_ you _. You can dream all you want, you can keep hopelessly wishing… but he will never want you. Never._ Bucky clenched his fists unconsciously in his pockets, not noticing until he realized that his fingernails were digging into his palms, leaving white crescents on his skin. It wasn’t Steve he resented – it was himself. He quickened his pace, his jaw tensed, trying to focus on the Brooklyn morning rather than address the guilt that the night before had dredged to the surface of his mind. 

It looked to be another day much like the one before. The clouds hung low and heavy in the sky, threatening more snow. The wind came in off the water, piercing-sharp and bitingly cold, stinging his cheeks as he strode towards the docks. The city always felt quiet in the early mornings, but there was a particularly hunkered-down quality on this particular morning, as if most people had decided to simply sleep off the storm. A few other people traversed the snowy streets, mostly other young men hustling to wait in line for work at the docks and factories. When he arrived at the docks and got in line to vie for work, he’d almost quieted his mind. He wanted to feel blank and empty and pure, like the undisturbed fields of blue-white snow on the roofs. But still, he felt as stained and broken as the tamped-down snow of the sidewalks. 

His day of work passed in a blur. Being a longshoreman was physically demanding, but the job came easily enough for him. Mostly, it was lifting things, carrying things, and putting them down. The other men he worked with got on well enough with him, too. Mostly, they shared bawdy stories and talked about the dames they wanted to fuck, the dames they were currently fucking, or in some cases, Bucky suspected, the dames they wanted the other men to _think_ they were currently fucking. He made sure to always smile and laugh at the right times, and although he never shared any stories of his own, the other fellas didn’t seem to notice. He’d always been good at fitting in and making friends. He couldn’t explain how he did it – Steve had told him once that he “just had something people wanna be around,” but Steve’d been unable to explain what, precisely, that “something” was.

As he fell into the steady rhythms of work – lifting, carrying, setting down, over and over and over – his mind began to quiet itself. The sun made its slow passage behind the periodically-snowing clouds, morning turning into midday, and midday turning into afternoon, and finally, as the gray sky grew darker, like ink creeping across wet paper, Bucky went home. 

* * * 

Steve had gotten worse. Nestled under the heaps of blankets, he looked so small that it could almost be comical, but the paper-white pallor of his face replaced any humor Bucky might’ve found with concern. Steve’s eyes were open, but his gaze was feverishly unfocused, and his breath came in labored wheezes. 

“Hey there, pal,” Bucky said, trying to conceal the alarm he felt. He always worried about Steve – the stupid punk needed _someone_ to look out for him, after all – but this was the first time he’d seen Steve get this sick. Before, Steve would always just stay home and let his ma take care of him. Sarah Rogers had been a talented nurse, and Bucky had never doubted that Steve was receiving the care he needed to get well again. But now… well, everything was different now. 

“Hey,” Steve replied shakily. “How was,” Steve burst into a staccato bout of coughing, “work?”

“It was just fine,” said Bucky. “How’ve ya been?”

“Not so good,” said Steve. “I feel pretty lousy.”

“Did you draw me anything?” Bucky asked, hopeful that mentioning Steve’s art would help him perk up a bit. 

Steve shook his head, his expression almost guilty. 

“That’s okay,” said Bucky, immediately regretting his question. Of course Steve hadn’t drawn him anything. He hardly looked capable of sitting up, let alone spending his usual hours hunched over pencil and paper. “You oughta just take it easy.”

“I oughta be at work,” Steve grumbled, in a hoarse voice that suggested that he definitely should _not_ be at work. 

“Oh, Stevie,” Bucky sighed. 

“I wanna be able to pay you some rent this month.”

“I told you – you don’t hafta worry about it,” Bucky replied. 

“But I _want_ to help out, Buck. I know that having me here is a burden. I’m sleeping in your bed – I oughta be chipping in at least a little bit for rent.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted in knots. _I’m sleeping in your bed_ echoed through his head. “Really. You don’t have to,” he said, his words coming out more clipped than he’d intended. 

Steve produced a handkerchief from his pajama shirt pocket and blew his nose. “I gotta,” he finally replied. 

Bucky shook his head. “I made you a promise, remember? That I’d be with you till the end of the line. And if that means payin’ all the rent myself, then that’s part of the deal. I’m not gonna stop you from helpin’ out, but I don’t expect it, and I certainly won’t ask for it. Okay?”

Steve nodded weakly. “Thank you, Buck.” He stared off into the distance, his eyes toward the window, but his expression looked a thousand miles away. “I miss her. I’ve never been sick without her around to take care of me, y’know?” Steve’s eyes shone with a sudden flood of barely-contained tears. 

“I know,” said Bucky, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed. “Of course you miss her. She was your ma.”

“I just… when I was sick and she was… Well, she’d just sit with me and tell me stories about my pa. About what he was like when they first met, about their wedding, about how he wrote home so happy when she wrote him to say she was gonna have me. I remember always wishing she had stories about his time in the Army, but all she had was a few letters. I just wanted to know everything about him, y’know? She always said how much I reminded her of him, but I dunno…”

“Oh?” Bucky prompted. Steve had barely talked about his grief. Ever since the funeral, he’d worn a mask of stoicism that he never seemed to take off. He’d never been much for talking about the things that hurt him, but Bucky could sense from the tension in Steve’s voice that whatever he was trying to say needed to be said, that it was more than he could carry inside himself. 

“I just want to make them proud. I want to be like _him_ , to be brave and strong and fighting for something. And I miss her so much. I wish I’d…” he let out a small sob, “I wish I’d asked her more about herself. I wanted to, but then when the diagnosis came and she went away to the home, and the doctors told me I couldn't see her... I always wanted to know about Pa, but I guess I just kinda figured I’d have forever to ask her about herself. But I was wrong. I just wanna… I wanna become a man who’d make them proud. I gotta figure out how I can be _more_ than what I am…”

“Shh,” said Bucky, impulsively reaching for Steve’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “She knew how much you loved her. And you’re gonna do great things. You’ll do right by their memories. I just know it.”

Steve put his other hand atop Bucky’s, his palms sweaty with fever but his slender fingers as gentle and precise as ever. “Thank you, Bucky. I miss Ma, I miss her more than anything…” He paused to blow his nose again. “But I’m lucky to have you.”

“I think it’s the other way around, pal,” said Bucky. _God, Stevie. How I wish I could tell you. How I wish you could know how I see you. You’re always talkin’ about how you gotta be_ more _, like you weren’t already the goddamn sun in my sky. As if there’s anyone who shines half as bright as you._

Steve began to cough into his handkerchief with a forcefulness that wracked his body, doubling him over. 

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, rubbing his back as he gasped for breath. 

“M’okay,” Steve replied weakly. “S’no blood.” He held up his handkerchief as proof. 

_Small mercies_ , thought Bucky. He kept rubbing Steve’s back. “Good. But if you’re not better by tomorrow, I’m callin’ a doctor,” he said.

Normally, Steve would protest. He protested any time Bucky suggested spending any money on him whatsoever. But this time, he just nodded.

* * * 

The night came on as cold as the last. Bucky washed up and shaved in the bathroom down the hall, changing into his pajamas in privacy while he was there. He padded back to the apartment. “Buck?” Steve asked the moment he walked through the door.

“Yeah?”

“Is it okay if you sleep in the bed with me again?”

“’Course it is,” Bucky replied, his heart suddenly loud in his temples. 

“I’m sorry. I know it’s…” Steve paused. 

Bucky began filling in the words for him in his mind. _Weird. Wrong. Bad. Queer. And I’m not queer, Bucky, and I never will be, never ever, as long as you live, you can never have me like you want to, never kiss my lips, never tell me how much you love me—_

“…A lot to ask,” Steve finished.

Bucky swallowed. _Shut up, brain._ “Not really,” said Bucky. “Long as you don’t hog the blankets, of course.”

Bucky clicked off the light and crawled into bed beside Steve, rolled to the very edge of the bed, achingly aware of the nearness of Steve, of the feverish heat of him. 

“’Night, Bucky,” Steve murmured into the darkness.

“Goodnight,” Bucky replied.

He listened to the sound of Steve’s labored, uneven breathing, the muffled sounds of neighbors shuffling down the hallway and thudding their footsteps upstairs, the faint sounds of a baby crying somewhere nearby. He felt a strange distance from it all, as though it were happening in another world entirely. 

Steve trembled slightly, the sensation of it carrying through the thin mattress. It was an odd shaking, not quite the fever-shivers Bucky expected, and he couldn’t quite place it, not until Bucky heard him draw in a shuddering breath, and he realized that Steve was crying. 

“Stevie?” he whispered.

“Yeah?” Steve replied, the tremor in his voice confirming what Bucky already knew. 

“What’s wrong?”

Silence, as heavy as darkness, and then Steve replied. “I miss her. I miss her so much.”

“I know.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Bucky asked.

“For everything. I dunno what I’d do if I didn’t have you,” said Steve.

“You don’t hafta thank me,” said Bucky. _You shouldn’t thank me. If you knew how I felt about you, you’d never thank me. You’d probably want nothin’ to do with me._

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you… can you… can you come here? Please?” Steve’s voice sounded small and plaintive, weak with tears and sickness.

“I’m right here,” replied Bucky. He thought he knew what Steve was asking, but he couldn’t believe it. Sure, he wanted to believe it, but he couldn’t. _Dammit, Bucky. Sure, you’re in love with him. But he’s your best friend. He’s sick, and he’s heartbroken, and he needs you. Fuck your feelings. Be there for him._ “What do you need, Stevie?”

“Will you hold me?” Steve whispered. “I need to feel you. I gotta know that I’m not gonna lose you, too.” The words came out choked, painful. 

“’Course I will,” Bucky replied. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He rolled over, slow and cautious. He remembered how when he was a kid, he’d sometimes try to catch pigeons in the street, creeping up slow and silent with gently outstretched hands. An older man in his building, who he’d known only as Mr. Doyle, had a coop of pigeons on the roof, and each night he’d set them free to make wheeling circles above the tenements. Bucky had dreamed of having his own flock one day, and spent hours scouring the neighborhood for the sturdiest-looking pigeons to ensnare and tame. But Mr. Doyle had patiently explained to him that the pigeons he kept were a different breed entirely from their wild cousins, and Bucky had ceased his searching. He had the same tense-throated feeling now, as though Steve was poised to fly away in a noisy whirl of wings. _He just needs to be held. He just needs a little comforting. Stop overthinking this. Stop making this about your feelings. They don’t matter right now. Steve matters. If you love him, really_ love _him, then give him what he needs. Nothing more._

Bucky wrapped Steve in his arms, felt Steve return his embrace, his body, shivering and feverish as it was, melting into him. It was the first time they’d ever touched like this, and though it was utterly new and unfamiliar, and Bucky’s heart felt ready to pound clear out of his ribs, something about it felt like home. Maybe he’d never get to love Steve quite the way he wanted to, but dammit, he could love him in as many other ways as he could find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They get to be happy by the end of this, I promise!
> 
> I feel like Steve losing his mom is something that doesn't get acknowledged much in the MCU -- I mean, there's mention of it here and there, but there's only a few moments of screen time that actually show him grieving her. I think that losing both parents, especially for someone like Steve Rogers, who's deeply, deeply attached to the people he cares about, should absolutely have a huge impact on him. That's something I hope to explore in this fic a bit, along with the way Bucky and Steve have to negotiate their queerness in a time when such things were more taboo than they are today. 
> 
> Also, I had to mention pigeons, because 1) I needed to work in some tiny Falcon reference somehow, and 2) I actually raised pigeons when I was growing up.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter, thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Morning came, and as usual, Bucky woke up just as the first light began to creep into the sky. As his senses slowly surfaced from sleep, he realized that Steve was still nestled against him, his congested snores muffled against Bucky’s chest. One of Steve’s hands was clasped in a loose fist, slender fingers tucked slightly into the placket of Bucky’s pajama shirt, his fingernails resting gently against Bucky’s skin at the base of his sternum. 

_Dammit, Stevie. Why you gotta do this to me, pal?_ Bucky briefly considered letting the inertia of sleep keep him right where he was, but he knew that the rent wasn’t likely to start paying itself. He gently extricated Steve’s fingers from his shirt and slipped out of bed in silence, tucking the blankets back around Steve as he stood. He paused for a moment, looking down at his best friend. His hair was mussed from sleep, strands tossed carelessly across his pillow. Illness had clearly rendered his nose useless, and his mouth hung slack, his breathing a stutter of snores. 

Bucky hated to leave him for the day. Steve’s words from the night before echoed through his head, _I gotta know that I’m not gonna lose you, too._ Bucky knew that he couldn’t ever fully understand what Steve was going through, not really. He could sit beside him, he could listen, hell, he could hold him in his arms, even. But both of Bucky’s parents were alive, and he had siblings, and when people asked him about his family, he felt warmth instead of absence. Sure, Steve rarely spoke about it, but Bucky knew Steve better than anyone, and he wore his sadness in his eyes, in that little furrow that sat between his brows. 

He knew that nothing he could give Steve would ever replace the father he’d never known, and the mother he’d lost. But Bucky wished that just once, he could tell Steve how much he loved him. It was impossible, but he wanted to give Steve a home in his arms, and make him know how profoundly loved and wanted he was. He could never replace what Steve had lost, but maybe, in far-off world, one where two men could love each other like husbands and wives did, Bucky could’ve made a new family with Steve. It could never happen. But as he looked down at his best friend, curled so tenderly in his bed, he could almost imagine that such a thing were possible. Cautiously, he reached down, smoothing Steve’s hair. _You’ll never know it, pal, but I love you._ He turned and walked to the stove to prepare breakfast.

He made coffee, eggs, and toast as silently as possible, got dressed, and slipped out the door, leaving another note:

**I’ll stop by the grocery and let Mr. Willis know that you’re not coming in again. Take it easy today. I think I’ll stop by my family’s place and see if my ma will make you some soup.**

**-Bucky**

He set off on the familiar walk, half-melted snow crunching wetly under his boots. A slight soreness nagged at the back of his throat, but he barely noticed. All he could focus on was how Steve felt in his arms, how those slender fingers had tucked themselves against his chest as though they belonged there. He’d often wrestled with why he felt the way he did about Steve. After all, it wasn’t as though his best friend was particularly popular with the dames he’d gone out with. But whatever that “something” was that Steve insisted made people want to be around Bucky, he was convinced that Steve had that “something” too, had it way more than he did. Everyone else was just unable to see it somehow. Bucky knew, with a sick certainty, that one day some lovely woman would see the same Steve that he did. Even though he knew it was horribly, perversely selfish, he thought of it filled him with a queasy sense of dread. Sure, Steve was skinny, and small, and plagued with a seemingly endless series of illnesses and physical weaknesses. But despite that, there was a prettiness to him – vividly blue eyes framed by dark lashes and sweetly expressive brows, full lips that readily rose from a pout into a wistful smile, blond hair impossibly feather-soft. And of course, he had a good heart. The _best_ heart. Any dame with heart and brains of her own, and the patience to get to know him, would fall for Steve in no time at all. Some part of Bucky – a part he wasn’t proud of – was grateful that no woman had yet. 

The selfish thoughts and waves of guilt raced back and forth through his mind. By the time he made it to the docks, he felt half-mad. _You can’t let it affect you like this_ , he reminded himself. _You’re not gonna be able to keep your secrets guarded if you let ‘em wreck you._ As he joined the line for work, he steeled himself internally, setting his jaw and clenching his fists in his pockets. Perhaps something inside him was broken, but if he stayed strong, he could make sure that no one ever saw it. 

* * *

By afternoon, his sore throat was undeniably irritating, the usual exertions of loading and unloading ships making him hoarse and scratchy. Still, he didn’t think much of it. At least, not until he bent to pick up a sack of flour, and as he rose, the earth seemed to lurch out from under him – a sensation that wouldn’t alarm him if he was on board a ship, except he happened to be solidly on dry land when it happened. _You’re probably fine,_ he told himself. _Just shoulda had a bigger lunch, is all. A little moment of lightheadedness isn’t anything to worry ‘bout…_

The final hour of his shift dragged by. The weather had warmed a bit, the snow replaced with a cold drizzle, but Bucky felt a chill that he couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how briskly he tried to work. The vertigo kept returning, and the shivers he felt seemed to originate from within his bones, rather than from the damp February air.

“Hey there, fella. You don’t look so good.” Bucky looked up to see who was speaking, feeling vaguely outside himself. It was another longshoreman, a slightly older man whose name was also James, although unlike Bucky, he actually went by it. 

“M’fine,” Bucky replied, the slurring between his words belying his claim.

“You look like hell, kid,” James said. “You sick or something?”

“Nah. Just didn’t sleep so great last night, s’all,” Bucky muttered.

“You’re real pale. Are you _sure_ you’re feelin’ alright?”

“Yeah. My friend’s just stayin’ with me right now and he’s got the flu, I think, and…” _And we’re sleeping in the same bed, and I’ve been in love with him for years, and it’s killing me…_ “And, well, he’s been snoring a bunch and it’s keepin’ me up.”

“You sure look feverish to me,” James said skeptically. “Are you sure you’re not coming down with it, too?”

“I never get sick,” Bucky replied. Well, he _almost_ never did. Every once in a while, sure. But he was certain – he was totally healthy. Just needed to eat a little something, and he’d be completely back to normal. 

“Whatever you say, pal,” said James, shaking his head. “Just don’t go spreading it around if ya caught it. I can’t afford to miss work. I’ve got a family to feed.” He walked away, but not before giving Bucky a pointed look. His head slightly too fuzzy to respond before James walked away, Bucky set back to work, although the back of his throat felt raw, and everything felt slightly heavier to lift than usual. 

* * *

He began the walk home on shaky legs. The rain fell hard and fast, and it didn’t take long before Bucky’s woolen coat was soaked through. _M’fine. M’not gonna go to my parents’ though… Think I’m gonna go lie down for just a bit, then I’ll be just fine…_ But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, he had begun to realize that he was decidedly _not_ just fine, not at all. The chill he’d begun to feel earlier was unshakable, and in his sopping-wet clothes, he could hardly contain his trembling. He was aware that he was walking, but he felt a disorienting remove from the motions of his body, as though he were watching from some long tunnel deep within himself. The feeling of unreality made him dizzy. _Gotta get home_ , he reminded himself, willing his disconnected legs to hasten their stride. 

Finally, he made it to his building, fumbling his keys out of his pocket with clumsy fingers. The climb up the stairs felt interminable, each turn of the stairwell making his head spin. At the top of the third flight, he paused, clutching the railing, squeezing his eyes shut. _Almost there. Two more flights and you’re home, Buck. And maybe you’re a li’l bit sick, but you’ll be fine. Jus’ gotta get home to your bed… and Stevie._ He heard footsteps creaking down the stairs above him. His neighbor, Mrs. O’Malley, a soft-spoken but pleasant older woman who lived with her husband, rounded the corner. 

“Goodness!” she exclaimed, uncharacteristically loud. 

“’M I that bad?” asked Bucky.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Mrs. O’Malley asked, her alarmed tone confirming to Bucky that he was indeed that bad.

“M’friend Steve… y’know, the one who’s stayin’ with me… Well, he came down with the flu or somethin’ the other day. I think I mighta caught it, too.”

“Well I should say so!” she replied. “My goodness, you scared me.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry, dear. I just worry about you boys, is all. It’s a hard time to be comin’ into your own. And it’s _never_ easy bein’ sick,” she said.

“I’ll say,” Bucky said, fighting back shivers. “Sorry, ma’am, but I oughta get upstairs. ‘M freezin’...”

“Well, of course you are! Goodness, just look at you – you’re soaked through!” she said. “I’m just running out to get a few things for soup. I’ll bring some by in a couple hours, alright, dear?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Bucky replied, resuming his slow progress up the stairs. 

When he reached the landing and set off down the hallway to his apartment, he kept one hand outstretched against the wall, not trusting his balance without a guide. He once again fumbled with his keys, opening the apartment door, and staggered inside. 

“Buck?” Steve groaned softly from the bed. 

“You got me sick, ya punk,” Bucky replied. 

“Sorry,” said Steve, his voice a whisper from beneath the blankets. 

“God, m’freezing,” Bucky muttered through his chattering teeth. 

“You can get in bed with me. It helps.”

Bucky paused. _Sometimes I swear that you phrase things like that on purpose, Stevie._ “Okay. Thanks,” he said. “Gotta go change first, though. All m’clothes are soaked.”

Steve lay silent for a moment as Bucky gathered his pajamas and a fresh pair of underwear. “I don’t mind if you wanna change in here, Bucky. It’s your place, after all, and since you’re feeling so lousy and the bathroom’s all the way down the hall…”

Bucky froze. Despite the fever-haze clouding his thoughts, the idea of taking his clothes off around Steve – the idea of Steve so near him as he undressed – filled him with equal amounts of desire and anxiety. 

“Sorry. Maybe that would be… weird,” Steve mumbled, sounding more than a little mortified.

Bucky realized that he’d never replied to Steve’s offer, the swirl of want, fear, and fever rendering him unresponsive. _The bathroom’s so far away. And Steve’ll feel weird if you don’t do it. And if you don’t do it, he’ll know that you feel…_ something _about him._ “No, no, no,” Bucky stammered. “Thanks. I don’t really wanna walk down the hall right now.”

He hung his wet coat on the back of his chair beside the table, his dry clothes laid out before him. He stood outside Steve’s line of sight – the bed faced away from the kitchen side of the little one-room flat – but he still felt as though he were on display as he unbuttoned his shirt and dropped his pants to the floor, then peeled off his socks. He took a nervous breath and pulled down his underwear, acutely aware that if Steve turned his head, he’d see every inch of him. For the first time that day, Bucky felt strangely thankful for how it felt as though his entire body was failing him. If he were healthy in this situation, his cock would never remain even passably flaccid. As it was, Bucky still felt acutely aware of its presence between his legs, the beginnings of arousal growing it plump and heavy, even though his body lacked the energy to raise an erection. 

He hurriedly reached for his clean underwear and pulled them on, followed by his pajama pants. He’d just begun buttoning his shirt when Steve’s head raised off the pillow, turning towards him. “You okay?” Steve asked.

“I feel like shit,” Bucky replied. “But yeah, m’okay.” He finished buttoning his shirt and walked over to the bed. Steve threw back the covers, patting the space beside him. Bucky laid down, pulling the blankets over his trembling body, feeling the relief of warmth and rest. 

“Sorry I got you sick,” Steve murmured after a few moments.

“S’fine, pal,” Bucky replied, the chattering of his teeth finally subsiding. 

“I wish I wasn’t like this,” said Steve.

“Like what?” asked Bucky.

“You know what I mean, Buck. I’m not strong like you are. I’m always gettin’ sick. I just wish I could be… not like this.”

Bucky sighed, the feeling of air against his sore throat making him wince. They’d had dozens of variations on this conversation over the years – usually as Bucky cleaned up some black eye or bruised rib that Steve had picked up in a poorly matched fight. “You’re good at so many things, Stevie. Ya don’t hafta be a strongman, too.”

“I’m not saying that,” Steve replied. “I just wanna… I wanna be useful. And if I’m laid up sick all the time, I’m not bein’ very useful at all.”

“Everyone gets sick sometimes, Steve.”

Steve let out a discontented grumble and rolled to face the wall. Bucky lay silent, staring upwards, his fevered mind finding shapes in the uneven finish of the ceiling as though he were cloud-watching – silhouetted faces and surreal vehicles and malformed creatures that faded in and out of focus like they were made of smoke instead of paint and plaster. Steve’s coughing shook the bed slightly, and for a moment, Bucky felt as though he were back on one of the ships during a swell of waves, his vision blurring into a stuttering spin…

* * *

Waking up came as a surprise, because he hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep. Initially, he was unsure what had woken him, until he heard it again – a gentle, yet firm knocking on the door, and Mrs. O’Malley’s voice faintly sounding through the wood.

“Bucky? I brought soup!”

“Comin’!” Bucky responded, throwing off the blankets and then immediately regretting it as the cold air washed over him. He grabbed the top blanket from the pile and hunched it over his shoulders, then slowly stood, the floor lurching beneath him as he rose. 

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Steve slurred, barely awake.

“Mrs. O’Malley brought soup,” replied Bucky. He shuffled to the door and opened it, blinking sleep from his eyes. 

“Oh, you poor dears,” she tutted, shaking her head. She carefully held up a basket. It contained two bowls steaming with soup, resting on a bed of cans. “I made chicken and rice soup, but I picked up a few cans of Campbell’s. Noodle with Chicken. It’s not as good as homemade, but it’s somethin’ to keep you nourished.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed by her generosity. “Well, thank you, ma’am, but you really didn’t have to…”

She shook her head. “Neighbors ought to look after each other,” she said firmly. “I’ll come back for the bowls and the basket in a couple days or so. Just knock on my door if you need anything in the meantime, dear.”

“I… uh… thank you,” Bucky stammered. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve said from the bed.

She handed the basket to Bucky and headed back to her apartment. Bucky closed the door and set the basket on the table. “You should get up, pal,” he said to Steve. “The soup’s gonna get cold.”

“I’m not that hungry,” said Steve.

“Ya gotta eat, Stevie. What have you eaten today?”

“Nothin’,” Steve admitted sheepishly. 

“You’re not gonna get better if you starve yourself, ya dummy.”

Steve sighed. “Fine.” He slowly dragged himself upright, shrugged a blanket over his shoulders just as Bucky had, and gingerly made his way from the bed to the table, slumping into his chair. “It smells pretty good,” he admitted. “I can’t smell much, but… well, what I _can_ smell smells good.”

Bucky pushed one of the bowls in front of Steve, sticking a spoon into the broth. “Well, then, eat up,” he said, bending over his own bowl and giving it a gentle stir with his spoon before he began to eat. 

“Tastes pretty good, too,” Steve said after a few minutes of silent eating. “Not quite as good as…”

Bucky nodded. He already knew what Steve was going to say, even if he couldn’t quite get the words out himself. “Your ma always did make the best soup,” he offered. 

Steve stared into his bowl, but his eyes seemed to look at something a thousand miles away. “Yeah. She did.”

“Sorry if you didn’t want me to say it. I just… I dunno. Sorry,” said Bucky. 

“No. It’s fine, Buck. And this soup is good, too. It’s just not the same, y’know?”

“I know,” said Bucky.

“I wish I’d gotten her recipes. Whenever I was sick she’d make this amazing soup – I dunno what was so special about it, but it just was. I mean, it was just chicken and noodles, mostly, but she’d chop up onions and carrots and celery just so, and whatever seasonings she added to it… I dunno what it was about that soup, but it was just _perfect_. It always made me feel better.”

“Remember that time in grade school, we both came down with the flu at the same time, jus’ like now?” 

Steve snorted. “I think I gave it to you that time, too.”

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I just remember how your ma heard I was sick, too, and she showed up at my parents’ place with a big ol’ pot of soup, explaining how she was a nurse and therefore knew all the tricks to making – oh God, what did she say – ‘a soup that’ll cure what ails him.’” Bucky paused, chuckling. “I still think that she knew I liked her soup better’n my own ma’s, and wanted to surprise me since I was feelin’ so lousy.”

“Buck!” said Steve. “Shh! That was supposed to be a secret! And anyway, your ma’s soup is good, too.”

“Not like your ma’s was,” Bucky replied. 

Steve looked down into his bowl, steam curling up into his face, aimlessly moving his spoon through the broth. With his head down, Bucky couldn’t quite make out his expression, but he could see the familiar furrow creasing between his eyebrows. Bucky knew he wasn’t likely to get much more out of Steve without prompting him.

“Steve?” he said.

“Hm?” Steve replied, looking up from his soup.

“I’m glad we’re talkin’ about this.”

Steve’s brow loosened slightly. “Me too, Bucky.”

* * *

As tired as Bucky was, sleep didn’t come easily that night. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, for starters, and his throat felt ragged and raw every time he drew in air. And Steve’s snoring – already loud enough to keep Bucky awake – was punctuated by increasingly frequent coughs. As they had the previous two nights, they both slept in Bucky’s narrow bed, bodies nestled close under the pile of blankets. _We didn’t even talk about it this time_ , Bucky realized. He stared up into the darkness, shivery and sore. 

Steve let out a small grumble and rolled against Bucky, tucking his forehead against Bucky’s left shoulder, fingers curling around his bicep. The unconscious intimacy, the press of body against body, snagged on the familiar ache in his chest. _Whatever the hell this is… whatever the hell it means to him… It feels like love. But you know it’s not. Because boys don’t do that with boys. Don’t let yourself forget that._

Bucky swallowed painfully. The familiar guilt pressed down on him. _If Steve knew what you are, if he knew even half the thoughts you’ve had about him, this would never be happening._ Bucky clenched his jaw and shrugged Steve off of him, rolling over to the very edge of the mattress. If he let his thoughts unfocus, he could forget where he was, forget how he felt, imagine that Steve’s snores were just waves washing against the shore down at Coney Island, imagine that he was somewhere, anywhere, but in bed with his best friend, with the love of his life, who would never – could never – love him back. Slowly, the tide of sleep rose over him, and he slipped away into the murky depths of fever-dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! 
> 
> I'm hoping you're all enjoying the angst! I'm having a lot of fun writing this fic, even though I'm also breaking my own heart a little bit. This chapter is largely setup -- sorry that it's not the most exciting update, but I hope it's a fun read nonetheless. 
> 
> One of Steve's traits that I find really interesting and challenging to write is how he keeps a lot of his emotional turmoil internalized. In the MCU that most often comes into play when he's being contrasted against Tony, who's pretty much the opposite in that regard. (As an aside, I like to think that Steve's close friendship with Sam likely developed because Sam, by temperament and profession, is exceptionally skilled at connecting with people like Steve, who have stoic tendencies but have experienced more than their fair share of trauma.) I see Bucky as being quite similar to Steve in that regard -- they're both people who experience a tremendous depth of emotion, but keep their cards very close to their chest. 
> 
> The next chapter will address what it takes for those emotional barriers to break down. I hope you all enjoy it! Thanks for reading! And I love hearing from you, so if you feel so inclined, comment away! :)


	4. Chapter 4

He woke to sunshine streaming into the apartment, cold white February light softened to amber by the faded curtains. Every part of him felt terrible – he felt as though his sinuses had been crammed with cotton, his skull pounded as though he’d just taken a punch, and his entire body ached with a dull throb. Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept much past dawn – working down at the docks meant rising in time to get work, and the bosses weren’t likely to assign a job to someone who showed up late. 

Bucky lifted his head slightly, and the room spun out from under him. He squeezed his eyes shut until the dizziness stilled, and then looked at the clock. 11:38. _Jesus… the day’s halfway over and you haven’t even had breakfast yet._ Bucky let his head fall back on the pillow, and rolled over towards Steve. His bedmate snored softly, mouth hanging slack and face pallid. 

“Steve?” Bucky murmured.

Steve continued his snoring unabated. 

“Hey. Steve.” Bucky reached towards him, giving his shoulder a gentle push. 

Steve squirmed slightly at his touch, and his snoring ceased. 

“Stevie?” Bucky prompted again, giving him another, ever-so-slightly firmer shove.

“Hm,” Steve grumbled. “Wha?”

“Wake up,” said Bucky. “S’almost noon, pal.”

“Don’ wanna,” Steve slurred, rolling away from Bucky.

“C’mon,” said Bucky. “I’ll make us breakfast.”

“M’not hungry,” Steve replied, his voice muffled against his pillow. 

“I don’t care. Ya gotta eat. You’re not gonna get better if ya starve yourself.”

Steve let out a resigned groan. “Wake me up when it’s ready,” he sighed. 

Bucky sat up gingerly, trying to avoid another bout of dizziness. He swung his aching legs over the edge of the bed, and slowly rose to standing, gripping the iron rail of the headboard to steady himself. Once he felt that the floor wasn’t trying to slip out from under him, he made his way to the kitchen. As he passed by the window, he pushed the curtain aside. It was a cold, clear day, the snow on the streets below barely melted despite the piercing sun. The windowpane had fogged slightly with condensation, and Bucky absently smudged a line in through it, watching dewy droplets form around the edge of his thumb’s trail. He saw a few children playing in the street below, scraping together snowballs from the few patches that hadn’t yet been turned muddy-gray by the constant passage of people and vehicles through the city. 

The image of the children reminded him of a winter day during the school year he and Steve had first met – God, had it really been a decade ago? – when they’d played in the snow just like the kids hurling snowballs below his apartment. 

Steve had been wearing a bulky wool jacket and a sweater, his neck swaddled in a hand-knit scarf, so heavily bundled up against the cold that his waifish frame appeared almost stocky. He and Bucky had set to work on making a snowman, and they were just beginning to roll together his head when Sarah Rogers came out the front door of Steve’s apartment building. 

“Good afternoon, Bucky!” she called out. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rogers!” he’d replied, straightening his back and offering her a polite nod.

“Do you have your key, Steve?” she asked, giving Steve a pointed look. 

“Yes, Ma,” he replied, running up to give her a hug. “I promise, I won’t forget it again.”

“You boys be good while I’m at work, you hear?”

“We will!” Bucky replied. 

“I’ll see you in the morning, Stevie. I love you,” Sarah Rogers said, giving Steve a peck on the cheek. 

“Love you too, Ma,” Steve replied, wrapping his arms around her, then running back to Bucky. 

As they plopped the snowman’s head into place, Bucky turned to Steve. “Your mom sure works funny hours.”

“I know,” said Steve, as he tried in vain to reach a low-hanging tree branch. “The hospital needs her at night sometimes.”

Bucky reached up and easily broke off a pair of twigs, sticking them into the snowman to form his arms. “That makes sense, I guess. Do ya miss her when she’s gone all night?”

“Yeah. But I guess I’m used to it. She’s been a nurse since before I was born, y’know. That’s how she met my father. He fell off his bicycle and broke his arm, and she took care of him and they took a shine to each other, and then they got married. But then there was the Great War…”

“I know,” said Bucky. “M’Sorry.” He’d never known quite what to say, being a kid with two parents and all. 

“Don’t be sorry. Just help me find something to make this snowman’s eyes out of,” Steve said, looking around the street for suitable objects. 

They’d spent the rest of the day in the snow together, until the sky began to darken and Bucky invited Steve to dinner with his family, and they’d warmed up in front of the stove with steaming mugs of hot chocolate and laughed themselves silly with inside jokes, until Steve went home and Bucky laid down in bed, his head full of snowmen and Steve’s smile that made him giddy for reasons he didn’t yet understand. 

Bucky sighed. _It all seemed so complicated, even back then. But nothing’ll ever be that simple again_ , he thought, turning away from the window, and walked to the stove. He fried up two eggs over-easy in a bit of butter, set them aside, and threw two slices of bread into the pan, letting them get crisp and toasted in the butter. He pulled out two plates, placed a piece of toast on each, and slid an egg on top of each slice. Placing the plates on the table, he returned to the bed. 

“Steve. Breakfast’s ready.”

Steve had pulled the blankets so snugly over himself that the only part of him that remained visible was a few tufts of hair. 

“C’mon, pal. Wake up,” said Bucky, shaking the mound of blankets that shrouded his friend. 

A moaning sound came from somewhere under the blankets. 

“You told me you’d get up for breakfast,” Bucky reminded him. 

“I can’t,” Steve replied, his face emerging from under the bedding. 

“Yes you can,” Bucky insisted. 

“It’s too hard to get up,” said Steve. Frustrated tears shone in his eyes. “I know I gotta eat, but I dunno if I can… if I can sit up for that long.” Steve looked away from Bucky, his voice thick with embarrassment. 

Bucky frowned, furrowing his brow. Steve hated admitting weakness, hated acknowledging that his body couldn’t do everything he willed it to do. “That’s okay, Stevie,” he said. “We’ll just eat in bed, okay?”

Steve still refused to meet Bucky’s eyes. “But… I don’t wanna make a mess on your sheets, Buck.”

“I’m gonna have to wash them once we get better, anyway.” _Once Steve stops sharing a bed with you_ , his inner voice reminded him, making his chest ache with something other than the flu. Bucky didn’t wait for Steve to respond, grabbing the plates from the table and carrying them to the bed. Steve laboriously lifted himself onto his elbows, propping his pillow behind him, and slouched against it, his hands extended to take his plate. Bucky handed it to him and slipped into bed beside him, arranging his pillow behind his shoulders. 

They ate in silence. Despite being so close together that they brushed elbows, Bucky felt an unspoken gulf between them. Not the usual void of his own secret longings, but something on Steve’s end – some sort of deadened pain. 

Finally, Steve spoke, after chewing his last bite of egg and toast. “Sorry, Buck,” he mumbled into his plate, still refusing to make eye contact or even glance in Bucky’s direction. 

“What’re you sorry for?” Bucky asked.

“Everything,” Steve replied miserably, his voice catching. Bucky turned towards Steve, but he looked away. As his head turned, Bucky made out the wet streaks of tears on his pale face. 

“What are you talking about?” said Bucky. 

“I just…” Steve drew in a shuddering breath, and began to cough, the sound painful and wet. “I… I’m such a burden to you, Buck. To everyone. I wanna be… I wanna be able to _give_ something. But I don’t have anything worth givin’ anyone.”

“That’s not true,” Bucky said firmly. 

“Yes it is. I’m just a burden. And I don’t get it, Bucky. Why do you even let me stick around? Why are we even friends?” 

Bucky flinched, Steve’s words wounding him more than he could ever let on. “Don’t you go sayin’ things like that.”

“I’m serious, Buck. What do you even _see_ in me?”

Bucky swallowed hard, his throat burning. _What_ don’t _you see in him? He’s the sun and the moon and everything in between. He’s the kindness you can only hope to live up to, he’s the courage you can only pretend to have, he’s the honesty that you can never match. He’s the kind of beautiful that you wanna touch, like some marble antiquity that your fingers long to touch, just to know how a masterpiece feels, but you know your hands can never deserve it. And you can’t ever tell him all that, can you? Because if you did, he’d be so disgusted by you that you’d never see him again._ “Steve, please. You’re my best friend. My best friend in the whole world. I dunno what I’d do without ya, pal. So don’t you go talkin’ like that.”

Steve finally looked at him, his eyes puffy and red, his nose running. His face was a mess, blotchy and swollen and damp with tears, but somehow, despite it – or maybe because of it – Bucky had never longed to kiss him more, to take that slender face in his hands and press those quivering lips apart with his own. “Bucky…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You’re my best friend, too.”

“I know that, you dummy,” Bucky replied, trying to hide the tears that threatened to fall from his own eyes. 

“Thank you,” said Steve. Abruptly, he threw himself onto Bucky, wrapping his thin arms tight around his shoulders, pressing his face into Bucky’s chest. 

Startled, Bucky returned the embrace, if a bit awkwardly, gently patting Steve’s back and leaning his chin against the top of Steve’s head. It took all the strength of his will to resist letting his lips fall against that soft, blond hair, to kiss the man with whom he’d developed this unexpected, sudden physical intimacy. 

Instead, Bucky held him stiffly, letting Steve find some sort of comfort – _platonic comfort, and don’t you for one instant let yourself believe otherwise_ – in his arms. They laid there until Bucky heard Steve begin to snore softly against his chest. Gently sliding out from under him, Bucky cleared their plates off the bed and returned to rest beside Steve. 

* * *

That evening, Bucky woke to a gentle shaking against his shoulder. “Buck?” Steve’s voice sounded softly into his ear. 

“Wha?” Bucky groaned. A sudden chill passed through his body, making him shiver. 

“Can I ask you a favor?” Steve asked.

“’Course you can,” Bucky replied groggily. 

“I really gotta go to the bathroom. But it’s really far and I get really dizzy when I try to walk, and…”

“Yeah, I can help you down the hall,” Bucky finished before Steve could complete his request. 

“…Thanks.”

Bucky rolled his way out of bed, fighting the now-familiar tilt and whirl of the room as he stood. He didn’t want to let on to Steve how weakened and dizzy he felt – not when Steve was counting on him. Bucky didn’t like to admit it to himself, but he took a perverse pleasure in caring for Steve, for know that Steve _needed_ him. _Probably because this is as close as you’ll ever get having him love you._

Steve pulled himself into a seated position on the edge of the bed, and Bucky knelt beside him, wrapping an arm under Steve’s shoulders, lifting him to standing. Slowly, they made their way to the door and down the hallway, the slight weight of Steve’s body leaning on Bucky for support. When they reached the bathroom, Bucky slowly released Steve, watching him woozily push open the door and shut it behind him, the lock clicking shut. No longer needing to hide his own fatigue, Bucky leaned into the hallway wall and slid to a seat on the worn carpet, letting his head fall against his knees. 

He’d halfway dozed off when he heard to lock click. The door swung open, bumping into his feet. 

“Buck?” Steve looked down at him, his face creased with concern. 

“M’fine,” Bucky said quickly, struggling to his feet. “Lemme help you back to bed, Steve.”

As he laid Steve back down and slipped under the blankets beside him, Steve spoke softly. “Someday, I won’t be like this. I promise.”

“You don’t hafta change a damn thing, Stevie,” Bucky assured him. 

“No,” Steve said, his words cut off by a fit of coughing. “No, Buck. I’ll find a way to get stronger and healthier. I mean, I know you’re always reading about all this amazing scientific progress in the papers. All these genius like Howard Stark and the rest of ‘em… I bet it won’t be long till they figure out a way to fix guys like me. Once they figure out a cure for asthma I’ll be able to exercise more, and someday… someday I might even be able to carry _you_ down the hallway! Imagine that, Buck!” 

Bucky grinned despite himself. “I’ll bet they will, Stevie.” 

* * * 

The next three days passed in much the same way, although Bucky steadily felt better and better, and Steve only seemed to get worse. His cough worsened, thick with phlegm, and although Steve reassured Bucky that he wasn’t coughing up blood, the specter of tuberculosis hung heavy over Bucky’s fears. 

“Buck? Can you help me down the hall?” Steve asked, his voice trembling and ragged from coughing. 

“Of course,” said Bucky. He bent over to lift Steve from the bed, an arm wrapped under his shoulders for support. Now that his fever had broken, Bucky was struck by how hot to the touch Steve was, his pajamas damp with sweat. Steve shivered and leaned into him. 

“Thank you,” Steve wheezed, then doubled over as a coughing fit wracked his body. Bucky held his shoulders steady. 

“Shh. It’s nothin’, pal,” Bucky said. Steve’s cough sounded bad. _Real_ bad. 

They slowly made their way down the hall, and Bucky let go of Steve as he entered the bathroom. He leaned against the wall as he heard the familiar click of the lock, waiting as he heard Steve’s sporadic coughs through the door. 

A few minutes elapsed, and Bucky realized it’d been a surprisingly long time since he’d heard Steve cough. He frowned, concerned, and rapped against the bathroom door with his knuckles. 

“Steve?”

Silence. 

Bucky felt a dreadful, dull chill settle down his spine, making his limbs feel heavy and numb. “Steve!” he said, louder, knocking again. 

Silence, again. 

Panic surged, his throat tight. Why wasn’t Steve answering? “ _Steve!_ ” he shouted, pounding on the door. 

The only response was more eerie silence. 

His heart pounding, Bucky began to kick at the door, desperate to do something, anything. What the hell was wrong with Steve? Why wasn’t he answering? 

Finally, he heard a sharp snap as the flimsy lock broke, the door shuddering open. His body felt as though he’d been plunged into ice; his vision tunneled back. Steve lay prone on the bathroom floor, his limbs splayed and his face against the tile. 

“Stevie, Stevie, Jesus…” Bucky stammered, rushing forward, gathering Steve’s limp body into his arms. He frantically grabbed one thin, pale wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was there, thank God, but Steve remained unconscious, his lips tinted slightly blue. “Steve, no,” Bucky whispered against his feverish forehead. He stood up, Steve still bundled in his arms, and rushed down the hall to the O’Malley’s door, freeing up one hand enough to pound on the door. 

“Mrs. O’Malley! Mr. O’Malley! Somebody! Help me, please! Help!”

After what felt like forever, the door flew open. Mrs. O’Malley stood in her nightgown and a bathrobe, her jaw dropping open when she saw Steve in Bucky’s arms. 

“Call a doctor, please!” Bucky begged.

“Of course, dear, right away,” she said. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Bucky blurted out, his eyes filling with tears. “I’m afraid he’s dying and I don’t know how to stop it.”

“Just…” Mrs. O’Malley looked nearly as unsure as Bucky felt. “Just put him in bed for now. I’ll call over my new doctor, I’m sure he’ll know just what to do.”

“Okay. Okay.” Bucky tried to steady his breath, but his chest felt as though it were caught in a vice, and drawing in air felt impossible. _This isn’t happening. This can’t be real. This isn’t happening. You’ll wake up in a few minutes and this’ll all be a bad dream. It’s just a nightmare._ No, he was lying to himself. The weight of Steve’s body in his arms was real, the horrible, senseless lolling of Steve’s head in the crook of his elbow was real, the deathly blue that shaded Steve’s lips was real. 

_The love of your life is dying in your arms, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it._ Bucky felt as though he were about to be sick. Slowly, as though he weren’t in control of his own body, he made his way back down the hallway to his apartment, laid Steve down on his bed, tucking the blankets around him. 

With Steve out of his arms, Bucky didn’t know what to do. He paced back and forth, periodically grabbing Steve’s wrist to check his pulse. 

“No, no, no…” he mumbled to himself as he paced. He wished more than anything that he could trade Steve places, that he could, through sheer force of will, make Steve the one with the health and strength. _But you can’t. And it’ll be too late for Steve to get fixed up someday by one of those scientific marvels he was talking about if he dies now._ Somehow, it was that thought – the memory of Steve’s hope, his belief that someday, somehow, against the odds, he could be different than he was – that pushed Bucky over the edge. Tears streaked hot down his face. It wasn’t fair. Not one bit of it was goddamn fair. Steve was so good, so kind, so brave… and here he was, next to death. And Bucky loved him so much, so _fucking_ much, and all the unbearable heat of that love, all the weight and force and might of it, wasn’t enough to make Steve well again. 

He knelt down beside the bed, impulsively taking Steve’s hand into his, feeling for a pulse again. Still there, weak and fluttering against those bird-fragile wrist bones, veins starkly blue against sickly-pale skin as thin as tissue. Bucky was still kneeling in front of Steve, his palms cupped around Steve’s limp right hand, when he heard a firm knock at the door. 

“Come in!”

A man holding a physician’s bag entered his apartment, Mrs. O’Malley at his heels. 

“Hello, son,” he said, his voice slightly accented. “You must be Bucky. I’m Dr. Klein. And I take it this is your friend, Steve?” he gestured towards the bed. 

“Yes. Can you help him? Please?” Bucky pleaded. 

“I’ll do my best, I promise you that,” said Dr. Klein.

“Don’t you worry, dear,” Mrs. O’Malley said, giving Bucky a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Dr. Klein is very talented. He came all the way from Germany to be a doctor here in America!”

Dr. Klein gave a slightly pained smile. “Why, thank you for saying that, Mrs. O’Malley, but I’m afraid the story isn’t quite so simple.” 

“Well, I’m sure it’s not, but— ” Mrs. O’Malley began. 

“—I’m sorry to interrupt you, ma’am, but I must examine the patient,” Dr. Klein said, kindly but firmly. 

“Oh, of course, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. O’Malley stammered. “ _I think I talk too much when I’m scared sometimes_ ,” she whispered to Bucky. 

“No, ma’am,” Bucky replied, trying to be polite despite the sensation that all the air had been knocked out of his chest. 

Dr. Klein held a stethoscope to Steve’s chest, took his temperature, and looked at him this way and that, his movements deft and sure. After several minutes of examination, he turned to Bucky.

“Your friend is very ill. His fever is high, and he has a fair amount of fluid in his lungs. Unfortunately, there isn’t much that I can do for him here. I believe he may still make a full recovery, but if he hasn’t improved by the morning, you should call me again. He may need to be hospitalized if he’s still… as he is.”

_He may still make a full recovery_ echoed through Bucky’s head. But then, the thought of Steve going to the hospital hit him, and the world spun back out from under him. _You remember when his Ma went to the hospital. She went away and never came back. He wasn’t allowed to see her, not even to say goodbye… it was “too dangerous,” they said, and then one morning she was gone forever without so much as one last time holding Steve’s hand…_ He imagined Steve being rolled away from him on a gurney down some long hallway, rolled away into the horrible void of forever, leaving only the vast nothing of absence in his place. 

“Bucky?” said Mrs. O’Malley. “Did you hear what Dr. Klein said?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, sir,” he said dully. “I’ll call if he’s not better.” _He has to get better, he has to._

* * * 

Bucky sat on the bed, hunched beside Steve, who, aside from his eyelids fluttering occasionally, and the occasional cough shaking his body, appeared all but dead. He looked down at his best friend, his one and only love, his _Steve_ , and wondered if this was it, the end of the line. It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t… but an uneasy dread told him it very well could be. 

He reached one hand out, shy and trembling but certain of his aim, and gently brushed his fingers through Steve’s mess of silken blond hair. Bucky let the tears come, slipping down his cheeks and forming droplets on his chin. Unable or unwilling to hold it back, knowing that his words would pass unheard anyway, Bucky began to speak. 

“Look, Stevie. I love you. I love you, okay? And I don’t mean that I love you like a brother, so don’t go sayin’ that you love me the same way ‘cause you don’t realize what I mean. I mean I _love_ you, Steve Rogers. Not like a fella should love another fella, but like I wanna kiss you, like I wanna hold you close every damn night, like you make me wanna sing ‘Night and Day’ and dance like we’re Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers… Dammit, Stevie. I’ve loved you for so long, for _so long_ , and I’ve been too scared to say it. ‘Cause you’re the goddamn _sun_ , Stevie, you’re so good and bright and lovely, and all I wanna do is stand in your light, and I never wanted my feelings to ruin such a nice thing. But Stevie, I gotta say it. Now I’m afraid I’m gonna lose you, and it’s not like you can even hear me anyway, and dammit – I gotta say it. I love you. I love you so much. I always have. I always will. Maybe I didn’t have the words for it, but I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you. I just… I saw you and I _knew_ that you were gonna mean everything to me. And it’s been killing me, being so close and still being so far, and I just hafta say it. I’m sorry. But it’s how I feel, and if this is…” he drew in a shuddering breath, his tears turning into sobs as he took Steve’s hand into his own. “If this is our last night together, if they take you away too and you never come back… I just hafta say it. I love you, Stevie. I love you so much.” 

He knew it was just his imagination, or coincidence, but he felt Steve’s hand move against his own, squeezing weakly to return his grip. Bucky wiped the tears from his cheeks and leaned down over Steve, brushing the hair from his forehead, soft, smooth skin hot with fever. He lowed his lips to that bare skin, reverent as a child taking Communion, and kissed Steve’s forehead. “I love you,” he whispered against Steve’s head, lips tracing the words into Steve’s skin, so that no matter what happened, Bucky’s love, as secret and shameful and hidden as it was, would at least exist somewhere outside his own mind. 

He laid down beside Steve, clicked off the light, and sent silent prayers to every god he could think of as he waited for sleep to usher in the morning, and Steve’s fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me in crying about the thought of Steve and Bucky dancing like [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydxcHACwX4Y)! 
> 
> I'm pretty sure the next chapter will wrap up this story (and as you may have guessed from the rating/tags, Steve maaaaay not have been quite as unconscious during Bucky's confession as Bucky believed him to be, and their love just might be less unrequited than Bucky believes it to be) -- I was originally planning for this to be a much shorter one-shot, but as per usual, I got waaaaay too excited about Stucky and just kept going. So here we are, 15k words into some "plot without porn," if you will. Although I promise, the other stuff is coming, too (and, er, so will our protagonists, *cough*).
> 
> Anyway, I'll quit rambling in the chapter notes. I love comments if you feel like leaving them! They always make my day. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, but I figured I'd rather do one long final chapter rather than two short ones -- especially since the logical cutoff point chapter-length-wise would be immediately before the smut begins, and while I may love angst, I'm not that cruel. :P 
> 
> Also, the final two sections of this chapter serve as a sort of flash-forward epilogue. I hope you all like it. I'm a sucker for happy endings, and these two dorks don't exactly have many chances for that during the 20th Century, so I couldn't resist! (They don't have a kid named Albus Severus, though, I swear!)

“Bucky? Buck, wake up.”

Bucky thought he was still dreaming until he felt slender hands gently shaking his shoulder, and just like that, he was wide awake. He sprang up to sit in the bed, looking over at Steve, who was – _awake_ somehow, miraculously.

He had to force himself to hold in a sob of relief before he replied. “Steve,” was all he could get out. 

“What happened to me?” Steve asked. “I remember being in bed, and then you helping me to the bathroom, and after that it’s just… fragments.”

“You passed out. You were unconscious for a long time. And Mrs. O’Malley called her doctor and… and I was scared I was gonna lose you, Stevie.”

Steve coughed, still harsh and painful-sounding, but somehow better than it had been the day before. “It feels like my fever broke,” Steve mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Bucky tentatively reached out to feel Steve’s forehead. _Fragments?_ he wondered. “Yeah, you don’t feel so warm anymore.” 

Steve blinked up at Bucky, his pupils wide in the half-light of the morning, then looked away, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. Bucky quickly set his hands back in his lap. _What does he remember from last night? Did he hear you… no. He couldn’t have._ So what was this palpable, unspoken awkwardness between them?

“Do you want breakfast?” Bucky finally asked, desperate to say something, anything. 

“I, uh, sure. Thanks, Buck,” said Steve. 

Bucky swung his legs out of bed and got up, preparing them eggs and toast. _Whatever this is, it’s probably all in your head_ , he told himself. _Steve was unconscious when you said all those things. If he heard you at all, he probably thought it was just a dream. A really fucked-up dream. Just try to act like a normal goddamn human being, and don’t let on that something’s off._

As Bucky scraped scrambled eggs onto their plates, Steve stood and shuffled over to the table. “I think I can manage sitting in the chair,” he said. 

“Okay,” said Bucky. “Whatever ya feel up for, pal.” 

They sat and ate in silence. Finally, as Steve finished the final bites of his toast, he looked up at Bucky. “I think I might do some sketching today. I’ve been sick for so long that I’m probably gettin’ outta practice.”

“Good idea,” said Bucky.

“Do you wanna model for me?”

“I, uh…” the question had never made Bucky nervous before, but suddenly, the thought of Steve staring at him, examining him, really _seeing_ him, was terrifying. “Of course.” 

“I was thinkin’ that I could use some fresh air. Y’know, for my lungs. Maybe we could bring a chair up onto the roof and do it up there,” Steve suggested. 

“It’s pretty cold out. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’ll bring a blanket. I’ll be fine,” said Steve. 

“Alright,” said Bucky. “If you’re sure.”

* * * 

Steve arranged himself in the chair, blanket around his shoulders and sketchbook balanced on his lap, his pencil poised over paper. 

“Okay, Buck. Go stand by the ledge. Maybe lean on it with your elbows… no, maybe your forearms? Yeah, that’s better. Looks more natural. Now look off into the distance. Yeah, over towards Manhattan. Like you’re lookin’ at the Empire State Building.”

Bucky assumed the pose. “Can you draw in King Kong? Y’know… give me somethin’ exciting to look at?”

“Oh, shut it,” Steve said. 

“C’mon, pal… please?” Bucky teased. _Just keep jokin’ around. Prove that the awkwardness is all in your head._

“We’ll see. Now hold still, Buck.” 

Underneath the sounds of the city – cars honking and rumbling down the roads, laundry snapping in the breeze, the whir of pigeon wings, the shrieks of children playing – Bucky heard the scratch of Steve’s pencil against paper. He looked out towards Manhattan as Steve had instructed him. He’d always loved that skyline. It made him feel small, but in a pleasant way. The same way that looking up at the stars made him feel small. Like he was so miniscule, so unimportant, but despite being nothing more than a mote of dust in the unfathomably huge wheel of the universe, he was still a part of it all. Perhaps he’d never be anything much, probably a century from now, nobody would even remember his name. But at least for the moment, he was in New York City, on a rooftop with Steve, and feeling small didn’t feel so bad. Steve was alive, Steve was getting better, and living a lonely life with Steve in it was something Bucky could endure. There was just one thing he didn’t like about being in the city, and he could still feel an uneasy tension between the two of them, so he decided to talk about it.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever wish you could leave the city for a night?” Bucky asked. 

“I… I dunno. Sure. Why?” 

“Remember when we were kids, I read a buncha books about astronomy?”

“Yeah, I remember. You wouldn’t shut up about the constellations. You kept dragging me up on the roof to look at ‘em with you, and tellin’ me all about the Greek myths behind their names,” said Steve. 

“Well, I read in the books that if you look up at night sky when you’re out in the country – where it really gets _dark_ at night, not like here in the city with all the streetlights and windows and stuff – you can see the Milky Way with your bare eyes. You don’t even need a telescope or anythin’ – you can just look up and see it. Like a smudge of light across the sky.”

“Yeah, I know. Just… what made you think about seein’ the Milky Way? It’s the middle of the day, y’know. You can’t even see any stars at all right now,” Steve said, sounding bemused.

“The sun’s a star, y’know,” said Bucky. 

Steve snorted. “I know that, Buck. You know what I was tryin’ to say.”

“I dunno what made me think about it. I just… I really wanna see it someday. The Milky Way. We’re right in the middle of it and I’ve never even seen it. I just wanna be able to look up at the sky someday and say, ‘Oh, there it is, and I’m part of it,’ if that makes any sense.”

“Yeah,” said Steve. “Maybe someday we’ll get to see it, Buck.” 

“I hope so,” he replied. 

“Y’know, I kinda miss when you’d tell me all those stories from the Greek myths,” Steve admitted. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Since we’re gonna be up here for a bit, would you wanna tell me one now? I mean, if you remember, and if you don’t mind,” Steve asked, a bit shyly.

“Sure, Stevie. Which one do you want me to tell?”

“Tell me your favorite one.” 

“I dunno if I have a favorite,” said Bucky. “I do really like the one about Persephone, though.” 

“Okay. Tell me that one. It’s been a while, I don’t remember quite how it goes,” said Steve.

“Alright. Well, I haven’t read it in a long time, so I dunno if I’ll get all the details right,” said Bucky. “But anyway, Persephone is a beautiful goddess. She’s a nature goddess, so she helps all the plants grow. Lots of gods wanna be with her, but her mother, Demeter, doesn’t like that. So she hides her away. But one day, Hades – he’s the god of the underworld, of course – well, he takes a shine to Persephone. She’s out pickin’ flowers, mindin’ her own business, when a cleft in the ground opens up, and Hades snatches her away to the underworld! Demeter realizes her daughter is gone, and she looks everywhere for her. She’s devastated, and in her grief, she makes it so nothin’ can grow any more on the earth. Everything’s dead and barren. And finally she finds out where her daughter is. Everyone’s starvin’ now, ‘cause Demeter made it winter all the time, and Zeus finally tells Hades that he has to give Persephone back so people can eat again.”

“Seems reasonable,” said Steve. 

“Yeah, but Hades doesn’t wanna let her go. So he tricks her. He feeds her some pomegranate seeds to eat before she goes back into the world, and since she’s tasted to food of the underworld, she’s cursed to spend half the year down there as his queen.”

“Huh,” said Steve. “I forgot about the part with the pomegranate.”

“Yeah. I dunno why the Greeks decided it was a pomegranate that did it, but ever after that, Persephone had to spend half her time down with Hades, and the other half of the time she could be out in the world with Demeter. And I think that was how the Greeks explained the seasons, or somethin’. Whenever she was down there with Hades, it was winter. But when she came back up, it was spring.” 

“That’s a pretty good one,” said Steve. “But… I always identified more with Icarus, I think.” 

“Oh?” Bucky raised his eyebrows. _What’d you say last night? “You’re the goddamn sun, Stevie,” was that it?_

“Ever since you read that one to me, I was always afraid of flying too close to the sun. Of asking for too much. Of daring to want things that seemed out of reach.” 

Bucky nodded slowly. _Where the hell are you goin’ with this, Stevie?_

“But that didn’t stop me from wanting to fly, Buck. If anything, it made me want it more. Something seems even more beautiful when it’s just out of reach, sometimes, you know?”

Bucky stared at Steve wordlessly. Steve had set down his pencil, all pretense of sketching gone as he met Bucky’s gaze, eyes bold and blazing. 

“But what if Icarus found out that the sun wouldn’t melt his wings after all? Or what if he found out that the sun god—”

“Helios,” Bucky interjected nervously.

“—Yeah, what if Icarus found out that Helios would catch him when he fell?”

“What are you sayin’, Steve?” Bucky asked, his heart pounding in his throat. 

“I mean, what if you wanted something, wanted it more than _anything_ , and you never, ever believed you’d get to have it. ‘Cause everythin’ in the world told you that it was impossible, that it wasn’t meant to be. What if you were Icarus, and you found out that the sun loved you back?” 

Bucky swallowed. “Steve—”

Steve stood up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, and slowly walked up to Bucky, until they were standing mere inches apart, Steve’s chin jutting up to look Bucky in the eyes, blue irises nearly obscured by his pupils. “I thought I was dreamin’, Buck. I didn’t believe it at all until you kissed me and I knew it might’ve been real. Not just some hallucination from my fever.” 

Bucky looked down at Steve, his mouth agape. _This can’t be real. There’s no way. You’re misinterpreting his words, or you’re dreaming, or you’re going crazy. There’s just no way that this can really be happening._

Steve turned away to cough, then looked back up at Bucky. His eyes were watering, although if it was because of his cough or because of something else, Bucky couldn’t tell. “You know, I still didn’t believe it really happened until we were up here,” Steve continued. “But the way you talk about things with me – stars and Greek myths and stuff like that – I just knew, I guess. You don’t talk that way with anyone else. Not your family, certainly not the girls you’ve gone on dates with. And I realized that you’d really said that, and that you’d really kissed my forehead when you thought I might die, and—” Steve looked down, blinking away tears. 

Bucky wanted to reach out, to wrap Steve in his arms and hold him close, closer than he’d ever dared to, but he felt paralyzed. “Stevie, are you sayin’ that you… that you’re…?” he couldn’t even form the words. He’d spent so many years telling himself that his desires were unspeakable, unattainable. A man could go to jail, or worse, for seeking out the things he wanted to do with Steve. And Steve… well, he wasn’t the type to end up in jail. And he liked _girls_. Bucky knew it, from the way Steve got all tongue-tied and awkward around them. So how the hell was any of this happening?

Steve took a deep breath, then continued to speak. “I love you, Bucky.”

Bucky drew in a sharp breath. “You… love me?” he stammered, his mind reeling.

Steve nodded, his shoulders hunched nervously. “I didn’t know what it was for the longest time, y’know? I was always so jealous when you went on dates. I thought I was jealous of _you_ , havin’ lotsa beautiful dames so keen on you and all. But then I realized that when I lay awake by myself at night wondering if you and whatever girl you were goin’ with were… were necking, or more than that…” Steve looked away, his cheeks flushed. “I realized that what made me feel so sick and lonely was the idea of some girl kissing _you_. As pretty as they were, I woulda rather been them than been with them. And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it, y’know? ‘Cause fellas don’t get to be with fellas. And anyway, even if they could be, what would a handsome guy like you want with a scrawny li’l runt like me?” 

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t give a damn that you don’t have lotsa muscles, Stevie, I—” 

“No, you don’t understand, Buck,” said Steve, turning away, his face flushed and tear-streaked. “Everyone I’ve ever had, I’ve lost. Everyone except you. But Bucky, you’re my best friend, and the roof over my head and the shelter from every single storm, and I’ve loved you for ages and I hate keepin’ secrets. It just… it tears me up inside. But you’re all I have, the one goddamn good thing, and I couldn’t go tellin’ you because I thought I’d lose you for sure. But when I heard you say those words, I, I…I…”

Bucky reached out, his fingers gently catching Steve’s chin and guiding his face back to look into his own. “You’re not gonna lose me, Stevie. ‘Cause…” he swallowed, his heart pounding. “I love you. And I won’t ever stop lovin’ you. I promise.”

“Promise?” Steve murmured, stepping closer to Bucky, his eyes wide and shining. 

“Till the end of the line and beyond it,” Bucky replied, feeling his own eyes sting with tears. 

“There’s so much I’ve been wanting to say,” said Steve.

“I know, Stevie. Me too. But we can say it now.”

“And Bucky… there’s so much I wanna do with you,” said Steve, his voice slipping into a velvety register that Bucky had never heard before, but desperately wanted to grow familiar with. 

Bucky felt a tingle creep down his spine, settling into him with a warm tension. “We should get off the roof,” he stammered. He’d never felt like this before, he realized. He’d gone on plenty of dates that’d ended with whatever gal he was going with standing as Steve was now, so close that they were almost pressed against him, looking up at him with expectant, wanting eyes. But with them, he’d always had a vague sense of panic, a feeling of being trapped in a cage that he was supposed to want, that everyone else seemed to want. But now he felt Steve’s hold on him, as strong and binding as chains, and maybe he _was_ a little scared, but he knew that whatever Steve wanted from him, he ached to give it. 

“I agree,” Steve replied. “Let’s go. But first—” 

Steve glanced around furtively, making sure there were no onlookers on nearby rooftops or from any neighboring apartment windows. Then, he took the collar of Bucky’s shirt in his fists and pulled Bucky’s mouth to his own, his slightly chapped lips parting around Bucky’s. _Steve Rogers is kissing you, so kiss him back, you fuckin’ moron_ , Bucky chastised himself, softening against Steve and moving his jaw slightly, working his mouth against Steve’s until his lower lip slipped fully between Steve’s parted lips, and Steve caught Bucky’s lip with his teeth, giving it a gentle yet surprisingly insistent tug. The sensation coursed from Bucky’s mouth down to his rapidly plumping cock, and he gasped into Steve’s mouth. 

Bucky forced himself to pull away from Steve’s searching mouth. “I’ve been wantin’ that for so long, Stevie. And there’s so much more I wanna do with you, if you’ll have me.” 

“Why don’t you take me down to your apartment and show me _exactly_ what it is you’ve been wantin’ to do?” Steve purred in Bucky’s ear, sending another spasm of desire through his body. 

“You don’t hafta tell me twice,” Bucky replied, quickly gathering the chair and hurrying down the stairs as fast as Steve’s still-congested lungs allowed. 

* * * 

Back in the apartment, Bucky locked the door behind them, leaving the chair in the middle of the room in his haste. Desire made everything feel out of focus – everything except for Steve, of course, who stood out crystalline and Technicolor from the blur of the surrounding world. 

Steve stood next to the bed, shoulders hunched as they always did when he was nervous. “What’s wrong, Stevie?” Bucky asked as he stepped towards him, cautiously taking Steve’s hand in his own and rubbing silk-smooth skin with his thumb.

Steve looked away. “Nothin’. I just… I don’t get it, Buck. Why would you wanna be with me? You’re strong and handsome and you’ve got that quality, I don’t know quite what it is, charisma or somethin’, and I’m just… me.” 

Bucky shook his head. “No. You’ve got it all backwards. Dammit, I wish you knew all the times I’ve wished I could be more like you. I’m not half as brave as you are – don’t you realize that? And you’re so _good_ that it drives me crazy sometimes. You wanna know a secret, Stevie? Sometimes, when I’m facin’ a decision and I’m scared, and I’m tempted to take the easy way out and just be selfish or cowardly, I ask myself, ‘What would Steve do?’ ‘Cause I know that if I just follow your lead, I’ll never go astray. And it’s not just your inner beauty that I want. ‘Cause like I said, I’m not as good as you. My mind’s full of all kinds of dirty thoughts, and – God, I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this – as much as I’ve tried not to think about it, ‘cause I knew how wrong it was, I couldn’t stop myself imagining you doing a kinds of… things… with me.” 

Steve blushed bright red. Bucky bit his lip. _You moron. You’ve said way too much. He’s gonna realize what a mistake this all is and everything will fall apart._

“Bucky, I…” Steve stammered. “You realize I’m a man, too? Not some kinda angel. You think I spend every night prayin’ with my hands above the covers? If you knew the stuff I’ve imagined doin’ with you… well, I’m not so sure you’d think I was all that good anymore.”

On the contrary, Steve’s words only fed his desire. He imagined Steve lying in bed, stroking his cock and biting his lip, mind swirling with half-suppressed fantasies of the two of them in a carnal embrace, just as he had so often done. The image sent another sharp jolt of lust down his body, and as he felt the heat building in his pelvis, he felt an insatiable need to find out precisely what Steve’s fantasies were. “Why don’t you show me some of those things you’ve imagined?” he said, the words seemingly issuing from a part of himself that he’d never even known was there. 

“Are you sure?” Steve asked. 

“Yes. Absolutely.” Bucky leaned forward and pulled Steve into a kiss, deeper this time, their mouths hungry and searching. As their tongues met, Steve pressed himself forward against Bucky, his hips against Bucky’s thigh. As Steve’s mouth yielded against his, Bucky felt Steve’s cock, as hard as his own, through the fabric of his pants. Steve began to slowly rut against Bucky’s leg, and the pure lust of it made Bucky gasp into their kiss.   
Steve replied with a low moan. 

When they pulled apart, Steve’s mouth was pink and his cheeks were flushed, lips plump from the pressure of their kiss. “I want to see you,” Steve gasped. 

“See me?” Bucky asked, nearly as breathless as Steve was. 

“ _All_ of you,” Steve murmured, reaching for the top button of Bucky’s shirt. 

It was all Bucky could do to watch Steve speechlessly, chest rising and falling as deft, slender fingers undid his buttons one by one, until his shirt hung open. Steve reached up to his shoulders, pushing the shirt down Bucky’s arms. It fell to the ground in a soft white crumple. Steve bit his lip, looking down at Bucky’s pants, then up at Bucky’s face, eyebrows raised inquisitively. Bucky nodded, and Steve unclasped his belt buckle, then fumbled his fly button open. The sensation of fingers so close to the epicenter of his desire sent a convulsion of pleasure through his body, and as his eyes rolled back, Steve slid his pants and underwear to the floor. As Bucky stepped free of his pants, Steve knelt before him, slipping Bucky’s feet free of his socks. As he stood, completely naked, acutely aware of his aching-hard, deep-flushed erection pointing shamelessly towards his best friend, he watched Steve step back. As those gentle blue eyes roved up and down his body with a hunger he’d never seen before, it fully sunk in that with the way things were going, soon he’d be able to look at Steve in the same way, to devote the same openly desiring gaze to the man he’d wanted in secret for so long. 

Steve turned away to cough for a moment, then looked back at Bucky, meeting his eyes again. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, Bucky,” he sighed. 

“I think I have some idea,” Bucky retorted. 

“God, if there weren’t so many other things I hafta do first, I’d draw you right now, just like this. I’ve been wanting to draw you like this for so long,” said Steve.

“Oh? Well, you know me. I’m always happy to be your model. I’ve never done any nude modeling before, but it doesn’t seem too hard.”

“I dunno, Buck. I think it might be… ah, _harder_ than you imagine,” said Steve, biting his lip as his gaze flicked down to Bucky’s rigidly erect cock. 

Bucky realized he was blushing. “Sorry,” he mumbled, suddenly self-conscious.

“No, no, no, Buck, don’t be sorry! What are you sorry for?”

“I… well, I don’t know. I’m just…” Bucky swallowed nervously. His heart pounded in his temples. _You thought that just because Steve told you he loved you, that you’d suddenly be comfortable in your own skin? Did you think that part of you wouldn’t still feel like you were wrong for wanting him? Did you really believe that the fear of being discovered, of being found out for what you are… did you really believe that would just go away? And it’s not as though you can tell him that. Because you’re James Buchanan Barnes, and James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t show his fear. Not even to Steve._ “This is a lot to process, y’know?”

Steve’s brows knit together with concern. “We can stop if you want. If we’re moving too fast, we can stop. Do you want to stop?”

Bucky took a breath to steady himself. _But he does love you. And you love him. And despite everything, all the fear and shame and all of it, you want this. You need Steve like you need oxygen. So be brave like Steve for once, and let yourself have what you’ve wanted for so long._ “No. I don’t wanna stop. Please. Will you… will you show me what you’ve wanted to do to me?”

Steve stepped forward, towards Bucky. Standing before him, he extended those gentle artist’s hands, cool fingertips tracing their way across the musculature of Bucky’s chest, down his belly, and reaching behind him to slide down the plane of his back, the brush of skin against skin electric-sharp. Steve fell to his knees before Bucky, placing his hands on either side of Bucky’s hips, his eyes taking in the close-up view of Bucky’s cock, then flicking up to meet Bucky’s gaze. Steve’s blinked up and gave a small, decidedly satisfied smirk when he saw Bucky’s saucer-wide eyes. 

And then, those hands were wrapping themselves around Bucky’s cock, and that smirking mouth was closing over the blushing head, and the heat and soft and wet of it was better than Bucky could ever have imagined. He gasped, his eyelids fluttering, as Steve began to cautiously work his mouth up and down, gradually taking more and more of Bucky between his lips. 

“Holy mother of... Goddamn…” Bucky gasped, the sensation rendering him incoherent. There were no words, other than half-formed obscenities. Steve’s eyes flicked up to meet Bucky’s, blue oceans of adoration shimmering above the spit-slicked shaft of Bucky’s cock bobbing in and out of Steve’s mouth. Bucky bit his lip, and wrapped his fingers in Steve’s hair. Steve looked up pliantly, lifting his mouth from Bucky’s cock. 

“You can guide me if you want,” Steve gasped.

“Guide you while you…?” Bucky said, swallowing back his disbelief. 

Steve nodded, slipping his mouth back over Bucky’s cock.

“Alright,” Bucky agreed. “But I don’t wanna hurt you or anythin’.” 

Steve looked up at Bucky, a defiant flash in his eyes. Bucky knew that look – it was the one Steve always had before he did something brave but possibly stupid. Bucky shook his head, but the possibilities of Steve letting him take control, of Steve surrendering his mouth to Bucky’s pleasure, were too tantalizing to resist. Slowly, cautiously, Bucky tightened his grip in Steve’s hair, guiding his mouth down the shaft of his cock, feeling the slip of tongue along the underside of it, the textured pressure catching against the ridge of the head. “Fuck,” Bucky moaned, pulling Steve’s head closer and closer to his hips. 

Steve made an abrupt choking sound, and Bucky let go of his hair, stepping back. His cock bobbed wet and shining in front of Steve as he turned his face into the crook of his elbow, a hoarse burst of coughs wracking his body. 

Bucky knelt in front of Steve, rubbing his shoulders. “Steve, that was amazing, but… well, maybe we should wait until you’re a little better before we try doin’ it more.”

Steve wiped his lips against his sleeve. “Maybe that’s a good idea,” Steve sighed. 

“But maybe I could do it to you?” Bucky proposed. The way Steve had gone down on him with such eager determination had alleviated some of his nervousness and doubt. Steve wanted him, and more than that, it seemed that Steve wanted Bucky to take him, to take control. And, Bucky realized, that was a _massive_ turn-on. 

Steve nodded, his shoulders hunching a bit again. “If you wanna, Buck.”

“Of course I wanna,” said Bucky.

“I mean, I’m just,” Steve gestured at Bucky’s torso, his eyes flicking from muscular shoulders to strong shoulders to broad chest. “I’m not like you.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t wanna get my hands all over every inch of you,” Bucky breathed into Steve’s ear as he began unbuttoning his shirt. 

Steve responded with a hungry little moan into Bucky’s collarbone, grinding his hips against Bucky once again as his shirt fell to the floor. “Please, Buck. I want that. I want that so bad.” 

Bucky ran his hands down Steve’s back, feeling the sharp contours of shoulder blades and spine just beneath silk-smooth skin. “You’re gonna get it,” Bucky replied, stepping back and dropping to his knees to pull off Steve’s socks and then undo Steve’s pants. He hooked his fingers into Steve’s waistband and slowly pulled downward, feeling a strange sort of reverence even through the drumbeat pulse of desire. Steve’s cock popped free from the fabric, bobbing before Bucky’s face, petal-pink at the tip and glistening with pre-come. “ _Ohmygod_ ,” Bucky breathed, bracketing Steve’s slim hips with his hands, slowly guiding him backwards to the chair he’d left in the middle of the apartment. 

Steve sat, slouching forward and spreading his legs to present himself to Bucky, who arranged himself between Steve’s knees. He reached one hand out, wrapping a loose fist around Steve’s cock and beginning to slowly stroke up and down. He knew what a cock felt like, of course – he’d touched his own like this more times than he could count – but somehow, it was entirely different when it was Steve’s rather than his own, just like how Steve’s touch had sent fireworks through his body in a way that his own hands never could. The heat of flesh, the smooth slide of skin against skin, the slick moisture leaking from the tip of it onto Bucky’s hand – it was better than he’d dared to imagine. 

He looked up into Steve’s eyes, and found them glassy with pleasure. “Buck,” Steve moaned. “I wish I’d told you a long time ago. We coulda been doin’ this for ages, and I… God, I wish I’d known.” 

“Me too, Stevie. But we got the rest of our lives to make up for lost time,” Bucky replied, arching his eyebrows and leaning into Steve, taking one pert pink nipple between his lips. 

Steve gasped, and Bucky continued his trail of kisses down Steve’s belly, until his mouth brushed into the thicket of coarse brown hair above his cock. Then, he pulled back slightly, and holding Steve’s cock in his fist, he lowered his lips over the head of it, tasting the salt of pre-come on his tongue as it caressed a slow circle around the tip. Steve let out a shuddering moan, arching his back, his cock pressing into the roof of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky began to bob his head up and down, running his tongue up and down the underside of Steve’s cock, feeling the head bump against the opening of his throat. He wanted to take all of Steve into his mouth, feel him slide down his throat, but the flu had taken its toll on him, too, and he doubted that he could press Steve deeper into him without triggering a coughing fit of his own. _You’ve got the rest of your lives to do this_ , he reminded himself. For now, it was enough to finally taste Steve, to work the base of his cock with his hand while his mouth did what it could to pleasure the rest of it. 

He lifted his mouth from Steve’s cock, wiping spit from his chin and catching his breath. “Buck,” Steve said, his voice trembling. “When you… when you thought about wantin’ to do things with me, what else did you imagine?”

“Lotsa things,” Bucky replied. 

“I want you,” Steve paused, his face turning as pink as the tip of his cock as he blushed. “I want you to do the _dirtiest_ thing you’ve fantasized about. If you want to, that is.” 

Bucky felt another bolt of desire shoot electric through his loins. _What the fuck did you ever do to deserve this?_ he asked himself. “Are you sure, Stevie?” 

“Yes, I’m sure. I wanna know. I want you to have me just like you imagined, Buck.” 

Bucky nodded, then stood, stooping forward to scoop Steve into his arms, and carried him to the bed, laying him perpendicular atop the blankets, his hips just over the edge of the mattress. He fell to his knees between Steve’s spread thighs, and shouldered under them, lifting Steve’s hips off the bed, then braced his hands just above Steve’s knees, pushing his legs upward. Steve’s cock lay against his belly, leaving little trails of pre-come as it brushed against his skin, his balls round and smooth and plumped with arousal, and below them, nestled between those smooth, milk-white globes of Steve’s ass, the tight little pucker of Steve’s hole. 

The sight of it brought back a thousand memories of Bucky squeezing his eyes shut, fist furiously jerking up and down, trying to think of something, anything else – imagining wrapping his hands around a pair of breasts, or lips leaving red lipstick marks against the base of his cock, or any fantasy that a fella was _supposed_ to have. But time after time, despite his best efforts, the thought intruded again – bending over Steve, spread open just like this, and his tongue tracing rings against taut muscle, and time after time, he’d come the instant he allowed himself to imagine it, and then wiped himself clean, unable to shake the shame he felt for his desires.

And now, somehow, he was about to do it for real. “Is this… is this okay, Stevie?” he asked, the anxiety returning. _What if he decides that this is too much, too perverted for a nice boy like Steve Rogers?_

Steve lifted his head from the bed, looking between his legs at Bucky. “Are you gonna… put your mouth, y’know… _there_?”

Bucky swallowed, then nodded. “I don’t hafta. We can forget all about it if you want. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have ever—”

“No, I,” Steve blushed. “I want you to. I want it. I want you to put _everything_ in there, Buck. Please, don’t stop now.” 

Bucky nodded. _You must be dreamin’, because goddamn, this is too good to be true._ He bent forward, pressing a kiss to the puckered skin, then working his jaw, tonguing against the firm entrance to Steve’s body, tracing slow circles. Steve gasped, his hips rocking into Bucky, daring him to press deeper. So Bucky did, stiffening his tongue and flicking it against the taut muscle, then pushing with his jaw, pressing the tip through the resistance of flesh and feeling the heat inside Steve, the smoothness behind the ridged skin. He worked his tongue deeper, opening Steve to him, hearing Steve vocalizing above him, a hysterical, continuous string of moans and cries and the occasional giddy little laugh of pleasure. 

When Bucky’s tongue had pressed as far as it could go, he lifted his head away from Steve, looking up to meet Steve’s eyes again. “Are you up for more?” he asked. 

Steve nodded breathlessly, so Bucky slid his index finger into his mouth, wetting it with spit, then began to stroke the opening to Steve’s now-slick ass with it, then pressed slowly in. The ridge of muscle resisted, then yielded, and he slid his knuckles in one by one, watching Steve’s face closely for any signs of pain. “More,” Steve moaned. 

“Okay,” said Bucky, removing his finger and sucking both his index and middle fingers until they were slippery, then pressing back in with both digits. 

“Oh, ohohoh,” Steve babbled.

“Is that okay? Does it hurt?” Bucky asked, pulling out slightly. 

“No, nonono, please don’t stop,” Steve hissed, rocking his hips into Bucky’s hand, taking in the full length of his fingers. Bucky made a come-hither motion with his fingers, and Steve groaned, arching his back into the pressure. 

“Please, Bucky, give me all of you. I want to feel you, I want you to fill me, pleasepleaseplease,” Steve begged. 

The words made Bucky’s cock pulse hungrily. “I want that, Stevie. I want that so bad. But I don’t wanna hurt you, okay?”

“You won’t. You know I can take a hit,” said Steve, his eyes steely with determination. 

“I know, but… I never wanna be the one to hurt you,” said Bucky. 

“You’ll never be the one who hurts me, Buck. I promise.”

“I… I’m sorry if I’m not very good. I’ve never done anythin’ like this before, and, well, I don’t really know what I’m doin’,” Bucky admitted. 

“Bucky, you’re good at everything. Shut up.” 

“I dunno about that, but I’ll do my best to make it feel good,” said Bucky. He slid his fingers out of Steve’s ass with a wet pop, and lifted Steve again, rotating him to lie along the length of the bed. He crawled atop Steve, taking his own cock in hand. Steve rolled his hips upward, grabbing his shins to spread himself open to Bucky. Bucky arranged himself over Steve, the dripping-wet tip of his cock poised just over Steve’s ass. “Please, if I’m hurting you, _tell me_ ,” Bucky commanded.

“I want it to ache a little bit, Buck,” Steve murmured up at Bucky, his voice velvet-thick and his pupils blown wide. “I want to feel you even when you’re not inside me. So I know it’s really real. I want your cock to leave a mark on me.” 

Bucky could’ve come right then and there if he’d let himself, but he took a steadying breath, and keeping a guiding hand around his shaft, pressed the head of his cock against the puckered flesh. There was resistance, and then, finally, Steve’s body yielded, and he pushed inside, the widest point of the head slipping achingly through the impossibly tight ring of muscle. Steve let out a little cry, and Bucky winced. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. It’s a… a good kinda hurt. Please, keep goin’.”

Bucky removed his hand from the shaft, and braced his palms on either side of Steve’s chest, giving a first tentative little thrust. Steve’s ass was better than any fantasy. The heat of it radiated through Bucky’s body, the smooth squeeze of it embracing his cock impossibly perfect. 

Steve looked up at Bucky, gritting his teeth. “You can go deeper,” he gasped. 

Bucky raised his eyebrows, and rutted into Steve, watching Steve’s mouth fall open and his eyes squeeze shut as he gasped. Slowly, cautiously, Bucky pressed deeper and deeper into Steve in one long, smooth stroke, until he felt his cock bottom out. Steve’s eyes snapped open as the dense thicket of Bucky’s hair pressed against his ass, and he looked up into Bucky’s eyes with an openness that made Bucky’s heart feel as though it might burst. Bucky leaned down, pressing a kiss to Steve’s mouth, then lifted back up, looking down at Steve as he began to move his hips in rhythm. As he looked into those wide blue eyes, he imagined all the other things he longed to do with Steve – taking him out for fancy dinners and winning him carnival prizes at Coney Island and kissing him sun-warmed and ocean-salty on the beach. And all those things were still impossible, but despite it all, they could embrace, and make love, and adore each other as long as the curtains were drawn from the rest of the world. And maybe somehow, someday, they could walk down the street arm-in-arm, too. But for the first time, as Steve looked up into his eyes, pupils swallowing up his irises and shining bright with love and pleasure, Bucky knew in his heart that what he felt for Steve wasn’t wrong, that it wasn’t wrong at all. 

Bucky rolled his hips into Steve, harder now, his balls slapping against Steve’s ass, Steve’s cock bobbing between them, bouncing against Bucky’s belly. “God, Stevie, you feel like heaven or somethin’,” Bucky gasped. 

“Oh, Buck, whatever spot it is you’re hittin’ now, please don’t stop,” Steve groaned, and with a whimpering cry, Steve came, sticky ribbons spurting across their bellies. 

Bucky felt his own cock begin to twitch, and suddenly everything was stars and shuddering spasms of pleasure, and he came inside of Steve, gasping into the final throes, thrusting in one last time up to the base of his cock. He lay on top of Steve, panting and pressing weary kisses against Steve’s temples and cheeks. As his cock began to soften, he pulled out, Steve’s tight little hole stretched loose and leaking come. 

Bucky grabbed a towel and wiped Steve clean, then himself, then crawled into bed beside Steve, pulling the blankets atop them and curling around his best friend and newfound lover. 

“Buck,” Steve murmured, “That was really good.”

“It was,” Bucky agreed, kissing the tip of Steve’s nose. 

“Bucky?”

“What?”

“I love you. I love you so much,” said Steve, nestling himself into Bucky’s embrace. 

“I love you too, Steve. My Stevie. God, I love you.” 

They lay curled together, until Bucky heard Steve’s breath turn to gentle snores. Bucky closed his eyes, too, letting the post-coital sleepiness carry him away into soft dreams of boys flying close to the sun, and surviving to wash up on sandy shores where two fellas could kiss each other without shame or fear. 

Bucky woke with a start to a knocking at the door. “One moment!” he shouted, springing from the bed and hastily pulling on his clothes. 

“Wha?” Steve murmured. 

“Just stay right there,” Bucky whispered, pulling the blankets up to Steve’s neck to hide his bare shoulders. He dressed and threw Steve’s clothes hastily under the bed. 

“Are you boys okay?” Mrs. O’Malley’s voice came muffled through the door. 

Bucky quickly unlatched the lock and opened the door. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he stammered. “Steve’s doin’ much better, thank you.”

Mrs. O’Malley peered in, looking at Steve’s face peeking out from under the pile of blankets. “Thank heavens!” she said, “I was so worried. I thought we’d need to call Dr. Klein for sure.”

“I’m doin’ a lot better today, thank you,” said Steve. He turned away to cough. “I’m still sick, but I’m on the mend.”

Mrs. O’Malley smiled. “Well, let me know if you boys need anything. I’m always here to lend a hand. Neighbors ought to look out for each other, you know.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Bucky. 

She left, and Bucky closed the door, leaning against it, his heart pounding. _You still hafta be careful_ , he reminded himself. _You gotta keep Stevie safe._

He locked the door and walked over to the bed. “What do you say I warm up one of those cans of soup she brought by, and then maybe I can model for you a little bit?” Bucky suggested. 

Steve smiled up at him. “I’d like that a whole lot, Buck.” 

Bucky leaned down, kissing Steve’s forehead. Nothing was gonna be easy, but at least they had each other. 

* * * 

**AUSTRIAN ALPS, JANUARY 1945**

It was their last night together of the Twentieth Century, although they didn’t know it. Bucky sat in the snow, his wool uniform woefully inadequate against the bitter chill of the alpine winter. Steve leaned against him, apparently unfazed by the cold – just one of the many changes the serum had wrought. 

The other Howling Commandos never asked where they went together before missions, just like they never asked why the two of them shared a tent every night. It was an open secret, he guessed – the Commandos were a buncha misfits anyway, so who was gonna hassle Captain fucking America about being queer? 

Bucky looked up into the sky. Clouds obscured the stars. A snowstorm was rolling in, he could smell it in the air. It was too bad – he bet that at such a high altitude, he’d probably be able to see the Milky Way clearer than ever before. He’d got a few chances to look at, now, but he always liked stargazing with Steve the night before a mission. It made him feel peaceful, somehow, like no matter that happened the next day, at least the stars would still be up there, shining down unchanged in their remote beauty. He and Steve would talk about the myths behind the constellations and huddle together real close, until the heat between them grew to a fever pitch and they’d hastily unfasten belts and yank open flies and Bucky would rut into Steve just as reverently as he had the first time, although now Steve was big and bulky under him, all firm muscles and sturdy neck and strong jaw. 

“Are you nervous?” Steve asked. Their mission tomorrow was undeniably dangerous – intercepting a train winding its way along mountain cliffs, a train that intel told them held Arnim Zola. It was more than just taking down one of the leaders of HYDRA. For Steve and Bucky, it was personal. The things Zola had done to Bucky – he didn’t like talking about them. He didn’t like even thinking about them. They came up in his nightmares often enough, when he’d wake with a start and Steve would wrap his arms sleepily around him in their tent and gently bring him back to the present with kisses and murmured reassurances. 

“No,” Bucky lied. _No, you’re fucking terrified. You’ve been having nightmares ever since the mission assignment. Strange dreams of Zola standing over you on that horrible table in that POW camp, only instead of goin’ after you with all kinds of injections and experiments, he’s tearing open a pomegranate over you, forcing the seeds into your mouth one by one until they burst and the tartness in your mouth feels so real you wake up and your mouth tastes sour…_

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” said Steve. “It’s dangerous. I can go alone. I can handle myself.”

“No,” Bucky said firmly. “I’ve got your back. You know that, Stevie.” 

“I know.” Steve pulled Bucky against him, taking his jaw in one strong hand – no longer slender, but still as deft with a pencil and paper as before the serum – and guiding Bucky’s mouth to his. “My Bucky,” he murmured, their lips brushing as he spoke.

“Yours,” Bucky breathed, and their warm mouths came together as Bucky rolled atop Steve, their bodies slotting together like two halves of some star-crossed puzzle. “I love you, Stevie,” Bucky whispered, pulling his mouth from Steve’s as he undid his belt buckle.

“I love you, my Bucky,” Steve responded with a grin, as he undid his belt as well. 

Far above them, obscured by clouds, the stars shone on, untouched by the world at war.

* * *

**NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY**

And so it came to pass that Bucky fell into a cleft in the mountains and Zola trapped him in the underworld of HYDRA, and just the same, it came to pass that Steve flew the Valkyrie high into the Arctic sun and plunged into the ice. But the Greeks couldn’t have predicted the world that Steve woke into decades later, all shining skyscrapers and men in flying suits – although they might not have been as surprised about gods coming to earth. 

Not all those Greek myths ended in tragedy. But even so, some happy endings take longer than others. On a hot summer evening, his mind free of HYDRA at last, Bucky stood hand-in-hand with Steve on the Coney Island boardwalk, celebrating Steve’s hundredth birthday (Tony kept teasing Steve that he “looked like a man half his age,” at least until Nat told him to quit being such an ass). 

Steve stole a kiss from Bucky as they turned their backs to the flashing boardwalk lights and looked out over the ocean, tasting salt air and the familiar smell of French fries and hot dogs. A lot had changed over the decades, but apparently, the American propensity for eating greasy food at Coney Island was a constant throughout the years. He adjusted his grip on the little teddy bear he had wedged under his arm – he’d won it for Steve, because even though the carnival games were almost definitely rigged, he was much too good of a shot to lose. 

“Thanks for taking me here, Buck,” said Steve. “It was a good idea.”

“Hey, it’s tradition,” said Bucky.

“I feel like a kid again,” Steve said with a grin.

“Don’t delude yourself. We’re a couple of old farts,” Bucky said, laughing. 

“Wanna head down to the beach?” Steve asked.

“Sure,” said Bucky. They walked down hand-in-bionic-hand, strolling along sandy shores until the sun set and the fireworks began. They stood in the crowd, looking towards the sky as the flash and boom of pyrotechnics filled the sky.

“Happy birthday, Stevie! I love you,” Bucky half-shouted into Steve’s ear over the din. 

Steve smiled. “Thank you, Bucky. I love you too,” he replied and took Bucky’s face in his hands, leaning in for a kiss. Their lips locked, Steve’s mouth as soft and yielding as it had been on that rooftop so long ago in Brooklyn. The crowd around them paid no mind, their eyes trained on the fireworks.

It wasn’t a perfect world, but at least the stars were the same, faint as they were against the ever-shining lights of New York. And for the first time since he could remember, Bucky didn’t feel afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I feel so fortunate to be a tiny part of the wonderful community here on AO3. I'll certainly be writing more soon, so if you've been enjoying this fic, you can count on more Stucky from me! 
> 
> As always, I love hearing from folks in the comments. Thanks again for reading, and much love to you all! <3


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